THE ESSAYS

ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER

TRANSL

TRANSLA

ATED BY

TED BY

T. BAILE

. BAILE

. BAILEY SA

Y SA

Y SAUNDERS, M.A.

UNDERS, M.A.

Volume O

olume O

olume One

COUNSELS AND MAXIMS

LECTRONIC

LASSICS

ERIES

UBLICATION

The Essays of Arthur Schopenhauer: Counsels and Maxims (Volume One) trans. T. Bailey Saunders

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Contents

INTRODUCTION ............................................................................................................................. 4

CHAPTER I:

GENERAL RULES.—SECTION 1. ............................................................................................... 5

CHAPTER II:

OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES.—SECTION 4. .............................................................. 15

CHAPTER III:

OUR RELATION TO OTHERS.—SECTION 21. .................................................................. 51

CHAPTER IV:

WORLDLY FORTUNE.—SECTION 47. ................................................................................. 83

CHAPTER V:

THE AGES OF LIFE .................................................................................................................... 95

Essays – Volume One

THE ESSAYS

ARTHUR

SCHOPENHAUER

TRANSL

TRANSLA

ATED BY

TED BY

T. BAILE

. BAILE

. BAILEY SA

Y SA

Y SAUNDERS, M.A.

UNDERS, M.A.

Volume O

olume O

olume One

COUNSELS AND MAXIMS

Le bonheur n’est pas chose aisée: il est

très difficile de le trouver en nous, et impossible

de le trouver ailleurs.

—CHAMFORT.

INTR

INTRODUCTION

ODUCTION

OBJECT

in these pages were to present a complete scheme

of counsels and maxims for the guidance of life, I should

have to repeat the numerous rules—some of them excellent—

which have been drawn up by thinkers of all ages, from

Theognis and Solomon

down to La Rochefoucauld; and,

in so doing, I should inevitably entail upon the reader a vast

amount of well-worn commonplace. But the fact is that in

this work I make still less claim to exhaust my subject than

in any other of my writings.

1 I refer to the proverbs and maxims ascribed, in the Old
Testament, to the king of that name.

Schopenhauer

An author who makes no claims to completeness must also,

in a great measure, abandon any attempt at systematic ar-

rangement. For his double loss in this respect, the reader

may console himself by reflecting that a complete and sys-

tematic treatment of such a subject as the guidance of life

could hardly fail to be a very wearisome business. I have sim-

ply put down those of my thoughts which appear to be worth

communicating—thoughts which, as far as I know, have not

been uttered, or, at any rate, not just in the same form, by

any one else; so that my remarks may be taken as a supple-

ment to what has been already achieved in the immense field.

However, by way of introducing some sort of order into

the great variety of matters upon which advice will be given

in the following pages, I shall distribute what I have to say

under the following heads: (1) general rules; (2) our relation

to ourselves; (3) our relation to others; and finally, (4) rules

which concern our manner of life and our worldly circum-

stances. I shall conclude with some remarks on the changes

which the various periods of life produce in us.

CHAPTER I

GENERAL R

GENERAL RULES.—SECTION 1.

ULES.—SECTION 1.

FIRST

AND

FOREMOST

RULE

for the wise conduct of life

seems to me to be contained in a view to which Aristotle

parenthetically refers in the Nichomachean Ethics:

[Greek:

o phronimoz to alupon dioke e ou to aedu] or, as it may be

rendered, not pleasure, but freedom from pain, is what the wise

man will aim at.

The truth of this remark turns upon the negative character

of happiness,—the fact that pleasure is only the negation of

pain, and that pain is the positive element in life. Though I

have given a detailed proof of this proposition in my chief

work,

I may supply one more illustration of it here, drawn

from a circumstance of daily occurrence. Suppose that, with

the exception of some sore or painful spot, we are physically

in a sound and healthy condition: the sore of this one spot,

will completely absorb our attention, causing us to lose the

1 vii. (12) 12.
2 Welt als Wille und Vorstellung. Vol. I., p. 58.

Essays – Volume One

sense of general well-being, and destroying all our comfort

in life. In the same way, when all our affairs but one turn out

as we wish, the single instance in which our aims are frus-

trated is a constant trouble to us, even though it be some-

thing quite trivial. We think a great deal about it, and very

little about those other and more important matters in which

we have been successful. In both these cases what has met

with resistance is the will; in the one case, as it is objectified

in the organism, in the other, as it presents itself in the struggle

of life; and in both, it is plain that the satisfaction of the will

consists in nothing else than that it meets with no resistance.

It is, therefore, a satisfaction which is not directly felt; at

most, we can become conscious of it only when we reflect

upon our condition. But that which checks or arrests the

will is something positive; it proclaims its own presence. All

pleasure consists in merely removing this check—in other

words, in freeing us from its action; and hence pleasure is a

state which can never last very long.

This is the true basis of the above excellent rule quoted

from Aristotle, which bids us direct our aim, not toward se-

curing what is pleasurable and agreeable in life, but toward

avoiding, as far as possible, its innumerable evils. If this were

not the right course to take, that saying of Voltaire’s, Happi-

ness is but a dream and sorrow is real, would be as false as it is,

in fact, true. A man who desires to make up the book of his

life and determine where the balance of happiness lies, must

put down in his accounts, not the pleasures which he has

enjoyed, but the evils which he has escaped. That is the true

method of eudaemonology; for all eudaemonology must

begin by recognizing that its very name is a euphemism, and

that to live happily only means to live less unhappily—to live

a tolerable life. There is no doubt that life is given us, not to

be enjoyed, but to be overcome—to be got over. There are

numerous expressions illustrating this—such as degere vitam,

vita defungi; or in Italian, si scampa cosi; or in German, man

muss suchen durchzukommen; er wird schon durch die Welt

kommen, and so on. In old age it is indeed a consolation to

think that the work of life is over and done with. The happi-

est lot is not to have experienced the keenest delights or the

greatest pleasures, but to have brought life to a close without

any very great pain, bodily or mental. To measure the happi-

ness of a life by its delights or pleasures, is to apply a false

Schopenhauer

standard. For pleasures are and remain something negative;

that they produce happiness is a delusion, cherished by envy

to its own punishment. Pain is felt to be something positive,

and hence its absence is the true standard of happiness. And

if, over and above freedom from pain, there is also an ab-

sence of boredom, the essential conditions of earthly happi-

ness are attained; for all else is chimerical.

It follows from this that a man should never try to pur-

chase pleasure at the cost of pain, or even at the risk of incur-

ring it; to do so is to pay what is positive and real, for what is

negative and illusory; while there is a net profit in sacrificing

pleasure for the sake of avoiding pain. In either case it is a

matter of indifference whether the pain follows the pleasure

or precedes it. While it is a complete inversion of the natural

order to try and turn this scene of misery into a garden of

pleasure, to aim at joy and pleasure rather than at the great-

est possible freedom from pain—and yet how many do it!—

there is some wisdom in taking a gloomy view, in looking

upon the world as a kind of Hell, and in confining one’s

efforts to securing a little room that shall not be exposed to

the fire. The fool rushes after the pleasures of life and finds

himself their dupe; the wise man avoids its evils; and even if,

notwithstanding his precautions, he falls into misfortunes,

that is the fault of fate, not of his own folly. As far as he is

successful in his endeavors, he cannot be said to have lived a

life of illusion; for the evils which he shuns are very real.

Even if he goes too far out of his way to avoid evils, and

makes an unnecessary sacrifice of pleasure, he is, in reality,

not the worse off for that; for all pleasures are chimerical,

and to mourn for having lost any of them is a frivolous, and

even ridiculous proceeding.

The failure to recognize this truth—a failure promoted by

optimistic ideas—is the source of much unhappiness. In

moments free from pain, our restless wishes present, as it

were in a mirror, the image of a happiness that has no coun-

terpart in reality, seducing us to follow it; in doing so we

bring pain upon ourselves, and that is something undeni-

ably real. Afterwards, we come to look with regret upon that

lost state of painlessness; it is a paradise which we have

gambled away; it is no longer with us, and we long in vain to

undo what has been done.

One might well fancy that these visions of wishes fulfilled

Essays – Volume One

were the work of some evil spirit, conjured up in order to

entice us away from that painless state which forms our high-

est happiness.

A careless youth may think that the world is meant to be

enjoyed, as though it were the abode of some real or positive

happiness, which only those fail to attain who are not clever

enough to overcome the difficulties that lie in the way. This

false notion takes a stronger hold on him when he comes to

read poetry and romance, and to be deceived by outward

show—the hypocrisy that characterizes the world from be-

ginning to end; on which I shall have something to say pres-

ently. The result is that his life is the more or less deliberate

pursuit of positive happiness; and happiness he takes to be

equivalent to a series of definite pleasures. In seeking for these

pleasures he encounters danger—a fact which should not be

forgotten. He hunts for game that does not exist; and so he

ends by suffering some very real and positive misfortune—

pain, distress, sickness, loss, care, poverty, shame, and all the

thousand ills of life. Too late he discovers the trick that has

been played upon him.

But if the rule I have mentioned is observed, and a plan of

life is adopted which proceeds by avoiding pain—in other

words, by taking measures of precaution against want, sick-

ness, and distress in all its forms, the aim is a real one, and

something may be achieved which will be great in propor-

tion as the plan is not disturbed by striving after the chimera

of positive happiness. This agrees with the opinion expressed

by Goethe in the Elective Affinities, and there put into the

mouth of Mittler—the man who is always trying to make

other people happy: To desire to get rid of an evil is a definite

object, but to desire a better fortune than one has is blind folly.

The same truth is contained in that fine French proverb: le

mieux est l’ennemi du bien—leave well alone. And, as I have

remarked in my chief work,

this is the leading thought

underlying the philosophical system of the Cynics. For what

was it led the Cynics to repudiate pleasure in every form, if it

was not the fact that pain is, in a greater or less degree, al-

ways bound up with pleasure? To go out of the way of pain

seemed to them so much easier than to secure pleasure.

Deeply impressed as they were by the negative nature of plea-

sure and the positive nature of pain, they consistently de-

1 Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, vol. ii., ch. 16.

Schopenhauer

voted all their efforts to the avoidance of pain. The first step

to that end was, in their opinion, a complete and deliberate

repudiation of pleasure, as something which served only to

entrap the victim in order that he might be delivered over to

pain.

We are all born, as Schiller says, in Arcadia. In other words,

we come into the world full of claims to happiness and plea-

sure, and we cherish the fond hope of making them good.

But, as a rule, Fate soon teaches us, in a rough and ready way

that we really possess nothing at all, but that everything in

the world is at its command, in virtue of an unassailable

right, not only to all we have or acquire, to wife or child, but

even to our very limbs, our arms, legs, eyes and ears, nay,

even to the nose in the middle of our face. And in any case,

after some little time, we learn by experience that happiness

and pleasure are a fata morgana, which, visible from afar,

vanish as we approach; that, on the other hand, suffering

and pain are a reality, which makes its presence felt without

any intermediary, and for its effect, stands in no need of

illusion or the play of false hope.

If the teaching of experience bears fruit in us, we soon give

up the pursuit of pleasure and happiness, and think much

more about making ourselves secure against the attacks of

pain and suffering. We see that the best the world has to

offer is an existence free from pain—a quiet, tolerable life;

and we confine our claims to this, as to something we can

more surely hope to achieve. For the safest way of not being

very miserable is not to expect to be very happy. Merck, the

friend of Goethe’s youth, was conscious of this truth when

he wrote: It is the wretched way people have of setting up a

claim to happiness—and, that to, in a measure corresponding

with their desires—that ruins everything in this world. A man

will make progress if he can get rid of this claim,

and desire

nothing but what he sees before him. Accordingly it is advis-

able to put very moderate limits upon our expectations of

pleasure, possessions, rank, honor and so on; because it is

just this striving and struggling to be happy, to dazzle the

world, to lead a life full of pleasure, which entail great mis-

fortune. It is prudent and wise, I say, to reduce one’s claims,

if only for the reason that it is extremely easy to be very

unhappy; while to be very happy is not indeed difficult, but

1 Letters to and from Merck.

Essays – Volume One

quite impossible. With justice sings the poet of life’s wis-

dom:

Auream quisquis mediocritatem

Diligit, tutus caret obsoleti

Sordibus tecti, caret invidenda

Sobrius aula.

Savius ventis agitatur ingens

Pinus: et celsae graviori casu

Decidunt turres; feriuntque summos

Fulgura monies.

—the golden mean is best—to live free from the squalor of a

mean abode, and yet not be a mark for envy. It is the tall

pine which is cruelly shaken by the wind, the highest sum-

mits that are struck in the storm, and the lofty towers that

fall so heavily.

He who has taken to heart the teaching of my philoso-

phy—who knows, therefore, that our whole existence is some-

thing which had better not have been, and that to disown

and disclaim it is the highest wisdom—he will have no great

expectations from anything or any condition in life: he will

spend passion upon nothing in the world, nor lament over-

much if he fails in any of his undertakings. He will feel the

deep truth of what Plato

says: [Greek: oute ti ton

anthropinon haxion on megalaes spondaes]—nothing in

human affairs is worth any great anxiety; or, as the Persian

poet has it,

Though from thy grasp all worldly things should flee,

Grieve not for them, for they are nothing worth:

And though a world in thy possession be,

Joy not, for worthless are the things of earth.

Since to that better world ’tis given to thee

To pass, speed on, for this is nothing worth.

The chief obstacle to our arriving at these salutary views

is that hypocrisy of the world to which I have already al-

2 Horace. Odes II. x.

1 Republic, x. 604.
2 Translator’s Note. From the Anvár-i Suhailí—The Lights of
Canopus—being the Persian version of the Table of Bidpai.
Translated by E.B. Eastwick, ch. iii. Story vi., p. 289.

Schopenhauer

luded—an hypocrisy which should be early revealed to the

young. Most of the glories of the world are mere outward

show, like the scenes on a stage: there is nothing real about

them. Ships festooned and hung with pennants, firing of

cannon, illuminations, beating of drums and blowing of

trumpets, shouting and applauding—these are all the out-

ward sign, the pretence and suggestion,—as it were the hi-

eroglyphic,—of joy: but just there, joy is, as a rule, not to

be found; it is the only guest who has declined to be present

at the festival. Where this guest may really be found, he

comes generally without invitation; he is not formerly an-

nounced, but slips in quietly by himself sans facon; often

making his appearance under the most unimportant and

trivial circumstances, and in the commonest company—

anywhere, in short, but where the society is brilliant and

distinguished. Joy is like the gold in the Australian mines—

found only now and then, as it were, by the caprice of

chance, and according to no rule or law; oftenest in very

little grains, and very seldom in heaps. All that outward

show which I have described, is only an attempt to make

people believe that it is really joy which has come to the

festival; and to produce this impression upon the specta-

tors is, in fact, the whole object of it.

With mourning it is just the same. That long funeral pro-

cession, moving up so slowly; how melancholy it looks! what

an endless row of carriages! But look into them—they are all

empty; the coachmen of the whole town are the sole escort

the dead man has to his grave. Eloquent picture of the friend-

ship and esteem of the world! This is the falsehood, the hol-

lowness, the hypocrisy of human affairs!

Take another example—a roomful of guests in full dress,

being received with great ceremony. You could almost be-

lieve that this is a noble and distinguished company; but, as

a matter of fact, it is compulsion, pain and boredom who are

the real guests. For where many are invited, it is a rabble—

even if they all wear stars. Really good society is everywhere

of necessity very small. In brilliant festivals and noisy enter-

tainments, there is always, at bottom, a sense of emptiness

prevalent. A false tone is there: such gatherings are in strange

contrast with the misery and barrenness of our existence.

The contrast brings the true condition into greater relief.

Still, these gatherings are effective from the outside; and that

Essays – Volume One

is just their purpose. Chamfort

makes the excellent remark

that society—les cercles, les salons, ce qu’on appelle le monde—

is like a miserable play, or a bad opera, without any interest

in itself, but supported for a time by mechanical aid, cos-

tumes and scenery.

And so, too, with academies and chairs of philosophy. You

have a kind of sign-board hung out to show the apparent

abode of wisdom: but wisdom is another guest who declines

the invitation; she is to be found elsewhere. The chiming of

bells, ecclesiastical millinery, attitudes of devotion, insane

antics—these are the pretence, the false show of piety. And

so on. Everything in the world is like a hollow nut; there is

little kernel anywhere, and when it does exist, it is still more

rare to find it in the shell. You may look for it elsewhere, and

find it, as a rule, only by chance.

SECTION 2. To estimate a man’s condition in regard to

happiness, it is necessary to ask, not what things please him,

but what things trouble him; and the more trivial these things

are in themselves, the happier the man will be. To be irri-

tated by trifles, a man must be well off; for in misfortunes

trifles are unfelt.

SECTION 3. Care should be taken not to build the happi-

ness of life upon a broad foundation—not to require a great

many things in order to be happy. For happiness on such a

foundation is the most easily undermined; it offers many

more opportunities for accidents; and accidents are always

happening. The architecture of happiness follows a plan in

this respect just the opposite of that adopted in every other

case, where the broadest foundation offers the greatest secu-

rity. Accordingly, to reduce your claims to the lowest pos-

sible degree, in comparison with your means,—of whatever

kind these may be—is the surest way of avoiding extreme

misfortune.

To make extensive preparations for life—no matter what

form they may take—is one of the greatest and commonest

of follies. Such preparations presuppose, in the first place, a

1 Translator’s Note. Nicholas “Chamfort” (1741-94), a French
miscellaneous writer, whose brilliant conversation, power of
sarcasm, and epigrammic force, coupled with an extraordi-
nary career, render him one of the most interesting and re-
markable men of his time. Schopenhauer undoubtedly owed
much to this writer, to whom he constantly refers.

Schopenhauer

long life, the full and complete term of years appointed to

man—and how few reach it! and even if it be reached, it is

still too short for all the plans that have been made; for to

carry them out requites more time than was thought neces-

sary at the beginning. And then how many mischances and

obstacles stand in the way! how seldom the goal is ever reached

in human affairs!

And lastly, even though the goal should be reached, the

changes which Time works in us have been left out of the

reckoning: we forget that the capacity whether for achieve-

ment or for enjoyment does not last a whole lifetime. So we

often toil for things which are no longer suited to us when

we attain them; and again, the years we spend in preparing

for some work, unconsciously rob us of the power for carry-

ing it out.

How often it happens that a man is unable to enjoy the

wealth which he acquired at so much trouble and risk, and

that the fruits of his labor are reserved for others; or that he

is incapable of filling the position which he has won after so

many years of toil and struggle. Fortune has come too late

for him; or, contrarily, he has come too late for fortune,—

when, for instance, he wants to achieve great things, say, in

art or literature: the popular taste has changed, it may be; a

new generation has grown up, which takes no interest in his

work; others have gone a shorter way and got the start of

him. These are the facts of life which Horace must have had

in view, when he lamented the uselessness of all advice:—

quid eternis minorem

Consiliis animum fatigas?

The cause of this commonest of all follies is that optical illu-

sion of the mind from which everyone suffers, making life,

at its beginning, seem of long duration; and at its end, when

one looks back over the course of it, how short a time it

seems! There is some advantage in the illusion; but for it, no

great work would ever be done.

Our life is like a journey on which, as we advance, the

landscape takes a different view from that which it presented

at first, and changes again, as we come nearer. This is just

what happens—especially with our wishes. We often find

1 Odes II. xi.

Essays – Volume One

something else, nay, something better than what we are look-

ing for; and what we look for, we often find on a very differ-

ent path from that on which we began a vain search. Instead

of finding, as we expected, pleasure, happiness, joy, we get

experience, insight, knowledge—a real and permanent bless-

ing, instead of a fleeting and illusory one.

This is the thought that runs through Wilkelm Meister, like

the bass in a piece of music. In this work of Goethe’s, we

have a novel of the intellectual kind, and, therefore, superior

to all others, even to Sir Walter Scott’s, which are, one and

all, ethical; in other words, they treat of human nature only

from the side of the will. So, too, in the Zauberflöte—that

grotesque, but still significant, and even hieroglyphic—the

same thought is symbolized, but in great, coarse lines, much

in the way in which scenery is painted. Here the symbol

would be complete if Tamino were in the end to be cured of

his desire to possess Tainina, and received, in her stead, ini-

tiation into the mysteries of the Temple of Wisdom. It is

quite right for Papageno, his necessary contrast, to succeed

in getting his Papagena.

Men of any worth or value soon come to see that they are

in the hands of Fate, and gratefully submit to be moulded by

its teachings. They recognize that the fruit of life is experi-

ence, and not happiness; they become accustomed and con-

tent to exchange hope for insight; and, in the end, they can

say, with Petrarch, that all they care for is to learn:—

Altro diletto che ‘mparar, non provo.

It may even be that they to some extent still follow their old

wishes and aims, trifling with them, as it were, for the sake

of appearances; all the while really and seriously looking for

nothing but instruction; a process which lends them an air

of genius, a trait of something contemplative and sublime.

In their search for gold, the alchemists discovered other

things—gunpowder, china, medicines, the laws of nature.

There is a sense in which we are all alchemists.

Schopenhauer

CHAPTER II

OUR REL

OUR RELA

ATION

TION

TION T

TO OURSEL

O OURSEL

O OURSELVES.—SECTION 4.

VES.—SECTION 4.

MASON

EMPLOYED

on the building of a house may be

quite ignorant of its general design; or at any rate, he may

not keep it constantly in mind. So it is with man: in working

through the days and hours of his life, he takes little thought

of its character as a whole.

If there is any merit or importance attaching to a man’s

career, if he lays himself out carefully for some special work,

it is all the more necessary and advisable for him to turn his

attention now and then to its plan, that is to say, the minia-

ture sketch of its general outlines. Of course, to do that, he

must have applied the maxim [Greek: Gnothi seauton]; he

must have made some little progress in the art of under-

standing himself. He must know what is his real, chief, and

foremost object in life,—what it is that he most wants in

order to be happy; and then, after that, what occupies the

second and third place in his thoughts; he must find out

what, on the whole, his vocation really is—the part he has to

play, his general relation to the world. If he maps out impor-

tant work for himself on great lines, a glance at this minia-

ture plan of his life will, more than anything else stimulate,

rouse and ennoble him, urge him on to action and keep him

from false paths.

Again, just as the traveler, on reaching a height, gets a con-

nected view over the road he has taken, with its many turns

and windings; so it is only when we have completed a period

in our life, or approach the end of it altogether, that we rec-

ognize the true connection between all our actions,—what

it is we have achieved, what work we have done. It is only

then that we see the precise chain of cause and effect, and

the exact value of all our efforts. For as long as we are actu-

ally engaged in the work of life, we always act in accordance

with the nature of our character, under the influence of mo-

tive, and within the limits of our capacity,—in a word, from

beginning to end, under a law of necessity; at every moment

we do just what appears to us right and proper. It is only

afterwards, when we come to look back at the whole course

of our life and its general result, that we see the why and

wherefore of it all.

Essays – Volume One

When we are actually doing some great deed, or creating

some immortal work, we are not conscious of it as such; we

think only of satisfying present aims, of fulfilling the inten-

tions we happen to have at the time, of doing the right thing

at the moment. It is only when we come to view our life as a

connected whole that our character and capacities show them-

selves in their true light; that we see how, in particular in-

stances, some happy inspiration, as it were, led us to choose

the only true path out of a thousand which might have

brought us to ruin. It was our genius that guided us, a force

felt in the affairs of the intellectual as in those of the world;

and working by its defect just in the same way in regard to

evil and disaster.

SECTION 5. Another important element in the wise con-

duct of life is to preserve a proper proportion between our

thought for the present and our thought for the future; in

order not to spoil the one by paying over-great attention to

the other. Many live too long in the present—frivolous

people, I mean; others, too much in the future, ever anxious

and full of care. It is seldom that a man holds the right bal-

ance between the two extremes. Those who strive and hope

and live only in the future, always looking ahead and impa-

tiently anticipating what is coming, as something which will

make them happy when they get it, are, in spite of their very

clever airs, exactly like those donkeys one sees in Italy, whose

pace may be hurried by fixing a stick on their heads with a

wisp of hay at the end of it; this is always just in front of

them, and they keep on trying to get it. Such people are in a

constant state of illusion as to their whole existence; they go

on living ad interim, until at last they die.

Instead, therefore, of always thinking about our plans and

anxiously looking to the future, or of giving ourselves up to

regret for the past, we should never forget that the present is

the only reality, the only certainty; that the future almost

always turns out contrary to our expectations; that the past,

too, was very different from what we suppose it to have been.

But the past and the future are, on the whole, of less conse-

quence than we think. Distance, which makes objects look

small to the outward eye, makes them look big to the eye of

thought. The present alone is true and actual; it is the only

time which possesses full reality, and our existence lies in it

Schopenhauer

exclusively. Therefore we should always be glad of it, and
give it the welcome it deserves, and enjoy every hour that is
bearable by its freedom from pain and annoyance with a full

consciousness of its value. We shall hardly be able to do this
if we make a wry face over the failure of our hopes in the past
or over our anxiety for the future. It is the height of folly to

refuse the present hour of happiness, or wantonly to spoil it
by vexation at by-gones or uneasiness about what is to come.
There is a time, of course, for forethought, nay, even for

repentance; but when it is over let us think of what is past as
of something to which we have said farewell, of necessity
subduing our hearts—

[Greek: alla ta men protuchthai easomen achnumenoi per
tumhon eni staethessi philon damasntes hanankae],

and of the future as of that which lies beyond our power, in
the lap of the gods—

[Greek: all aetoi men tauta theon en gounasi keitai.]

1 Iliad, xix, 65.]
2 Ibid, xvii, 514]

But in regard to the present let us remember Seneca’s advice,

and live each day as if it were our whole life,—singulas dies

singulas vitas puta: let us make it as agreeable as possible, it is

the only real time we have.

Only those evils which are sure to come at a definite date

have any right to disturb us; and how few there are which

fulfill this description. For evils are of two kinds; either they

are possible only, at most probable; or they are inevitable.

Even in the case of evils which are sure to happen, the time

at which they will happen is uncertain. A man who is always

preparing for either class of evil will not have a moment of

peace left him. So, if we are not to lose all comfort in life

through the fear of evils, some of which are uncertain in

themselves, and others, in the time at which they will occur,

we should look upon the one kind as never likely to happen,

and the other as not likely to happen very soon.

Now, the less our peace of mind is disturbed by fear, the

more likely it is to be agitated by desire and expectation.

This is the true meaning of that song of Goethe’s which is

such a favorite with everyone: Ich hab’ mein’ Sach’ auf nichts

gestellt. It is only after a man has got rid of all pretension,

Essays – Volume One

and taken refuge in mere unembellished existence, that he is

able to attain that peace of mind which is the foundation of

human happiness. Peace of mind! that is something essential

to any enjoyment of the present moment; and unless its sepa-

rate moments are enjoyed, there is an end of life’s happiness

as a whole. We should always collect that To-day comes only

once, and never returns. We fancy that it will come again to-

morrow; but To-morrow is another day, which, in its turn,

comes once only. We are apt to forget that every day is an

integral, and therefore irreplaceable portion of life, and to

look upon life as though it were a collective idea or name

which does not suffer if one of the individuals it covers is

destroyed.

We should be more likely to appreciate and enjoy the

present, if, in those good days when we are well and strong,

we did not fail to reflect how, in sickness and sorrow, every

past hour that was free from pain and privation seemed in

our memory so infinitely to be envied—as it were, a lost

paradise, or some one who was only then seen to have acted

as a friend. But we live through our days of happiness with-

out noticing them; it is only when evil comes upon us that

we wish them back. A thousand gay and pleasant hours are

wasted in ill-humor; we let them slip by unenjoyed, and sigh

for them in vain when the sky is overcast. Those present mo-

ments that are bearable, be they never so trite and common,—

passed by in indifference, or, it may be, impatiently pushed

away,—those are the moments we should honor; never failing

to remember that the ebbing tide is even how hurrying them

into the past, where memory will store them transfigured and

shining with an imperishable light,—in some after-time, and

above all, when our days are evil, to raise the veil and present

them as the object of our fondest regret.

SECTION 6. Limitations always make for happiness. We are

happy in proportion as our range of vision, our sphere of

work, our points of contact with the world, are restricted

and circumscribed. We are more likely to feel worried and

anxious if these limits are wide; for it means that our cares,

desires and terrors are increased and intensified. That is why

the blind are not so unhappy as we might be inclined to

suppose; otherwise there would not be that gentle and al-

most serene expression of peace in their faces.

Schopenhauer

Another reason why limitation makes for happiness is that

the second half of life proves even more dreary that the first.

As the years wear on, the horizon of our aims and our points

of contact with the world become more extended. In child-

hood our horizon is limited to the narrowest sphere about

us; in youth there is already a very considerable widening of

our view; in manhood it comprises the whole range of our

activity, often stretching out over a very distant sphere,—the

care, for instance, of a State or a nation; in old age it em-

braces posterity.

But even in the affairs of the intellect, limitation is neces-

sary if we are to be happy. For the less the will is excited, the

less we suffer. We have seen that suffering is something posi-

tive, and that happiness is only a negative condition. To limit

the sphere of outward activity is to relieve the will of external

stimulus: to limit the sphere of our intellectual efforts is to

relieve the will of internal sources of excitement. This latter

kind of limitation is attended by the disadvantage that it

opens the door to boredom, which is a direct source of count-

less sufferings; for to banish boredom, a man will have re-

course to any means that may be handy—dissipation, soci-

ety, extravagance, gaming, and drinking, and the like, which

in their turn bring mischief, ruin and misery in their train.

Difficiles in otio quies—it is difficult to keep quiet if you have

nothing to do. That limitation in the sphere of outward ac-

tivity is conducive, nay, even necessary to human happiness,

such as it is, may be seen in the fact that the only kind of

poetry which depicts men in a happy state of life—Idyllic

poetry, I mean,—always aims, as an intrinsic part of its treat-

ment, at representing them in very simple and restricted cir-

cumstances. It is this feeling, too, which is at the bottom of

the pleasure we take in what are called genre pictures.

Simplicity, therefore, as far as it can be attained, and even

monotony, in our manner of life, if it does not mean that we

are bored, will contribute to happiness; just because, under

such circumstances, life, and consequently the burden which

is the essential concomitant of life, will be least felt. Our

existence will glide on peacefully like a stream which no waves

or whirlpools disturb.

SECTION 7. Whether we are in a pleasant or a painful state

depends, ultimately, upon the kind of matter that pervades

Essays – Volume One

and engrosses our consciousness. In this respect, purely in-

tellectual occupation, for the mind that is capable of it, will,

as a rule, do much more in the way of happiness than any

form of practical life, with its constant alternations of success

and failure, and all the shocks and torments it produces. But it

must be confessed that for such occupation a pre-eminent

amount of intellectual capacity is necessary. And in this con-

nection it may be noted that, just as a life devoted to outward

activity will distract and divert a man from study, and also

deprive him of that quiet concentration of mind which is nec-

essary for such work; so, on the other hand, a long course of

thought will make him more or less unfit for the noisy pur-

suits of real life. It is advisable, therefore, to suspend mental

work for a while, if circumstances happen which demand any

degree of energy in affairs of a practical nature.

SECTION 8. To live a life that shall be entirely prudent and

discreet, and to draw from experience all the instruction it

contains, it is requisite to be constantly thinking back,—to

make a kind of recapitulation of what we have done, of our

impressions and sensations, to compare our former with our

present judgments—what we set before us and struggle to

achieve, with the actual result and satisfaction we have ob-

tained. To do this is to get a repetition of the private lessons

of experience,—lessons which are given to every one.

Experience of the world may be looked upon as a kind of

text, to which reflection and knowledge form the commen-

tary. Where there is great deal of reflection and intellectual

knowledge, and very little experience, the result is like those

books which have on each page two lines of text to forty

lines of commentary. A great deal of experience with little

reflection and scant knowledge, gives us books like those of

the editio Bipontina

where there are no notes and much

that is unintelligible.

The advice here given is on a par with a rule recommended

by Pythagoras,—to review, every night before going to sleep,

what we have done during the day. To live at random, in the

hurly-burly of business or pleasure, without ever reflecting

1 Translator’s Note. A series of Greek, Latin and French clas-
sics published at Zweibräcken in the Palatinate, from and

after the year 1779. Cf. Butter, Ueber die Bipontiner und die

editiones Bipontinae.

Schopenhauer

upon the past,—to go on, as it were, pulling cotton off the

reel of life,—is to have no clear idea of what we are about;

and a man who lives in this state will have chaos in his emo-

tions and certain confusion in his thoughts; as is soon mani-

fest by the abrupt and fragmentary character of his conver-

sation, which becomes a kind of mincemeat. A man will be

all the more exposed to this fate in proportion as he lives a

restless life in the world, amid a crowd of various impres-

sions and with a correspondingly small amount of activity

on the part of his own mind.

And in this connection it will be in place to observe that,

when events and circumstances which have influenced us

pass away in the course of time, we are unable to bring back

and renew the particular mood or state of feeling which they

aroused in us: but we can remember what we were led to say

and do in regard to them; and thus form, as it were, the

result, expression and measure of those events. We should,

therefore, be careful to preserve the memory of our thoughts

at important points in our life; and herein lies the great ad-

vantage of keeping a journal.

SECTION 9. To be self-sufficient, to be all in all to oneself,

to want for nothing, to be able to say omnia mea mecum

porto—that is assuredly the chief qualification for happiness.

Hence Aristotle’s remark, [Greek: hae eudaimonia ton

autarchon esti]

—to be happy means to be self-sufficient—

cannot be too often repeated. It is, at bottom, the same

thought as is present in the very well-turned sentence from

Chamfort:

Le bonheur n’est pas chose aisée: il est très difficile de le trouver

en nous, et impossible de le trouver ailleurs.

For while a man cannot reckon with certainty upon any-

one but himself, the burdens and disadvantages, the dangers

and annoyances, which arise from having to do with others,

are not only countless but unavoidable.

There is no more mistaken path to happiness than world-

liness, revelry, high life: for the whole object of it is to trans-

form our miserable existence into a succession of joys, de-

lights and pleasures,—a process which cannot fail to result

1 Eudem. Eth. VII. ii. 37.

Essays – Volume One

in disappointment and delusion; on a par, in this respect,

with its obligato accompaniment, the interchange of lies.

All society necessarily involves, as the first condition of its

existence, mutual accommodation and restraint upon the part

of its members. This means that the larger it is, the more

insipid will be its tone. A man can be himself only so long as

he is alone; and if he does not love solitude, he will not love

freedom; for it is only when he is alone that he is really free.

Constraint is always present in society, like a companion of

whom there is no riddance; and in proportion to the great-

ness of a man’s individuality, it will be hard for him to bear

the sacrifices which all intercourse with others demands, Soli-

tude will be welcomed or endured or avoided, according as a

man’s personal value is large or small,—the wretch feeling,

when he is alone, the whole burden of his misery; the great

intellect delighting in its greatness; and everyone, in short,

being just what he is.

Further, if a man stands high in Nature’s lists, it is natural

and inevitable that he should feel solitary. It will be an ad-

vantage to him if his surroundings do not interfere with this

feeling; for if he has to see a great deal of other people who

are not of like character with himself, they will exercise a

disturbing influence upon him, adverse to his peace of mind;

they will rob him, in fact, of himself, and give him nothing

to compensate for the loss.

But while Nature sets very wide differences between man

and man in respect both of morality and of intellect, society

disregards and effaces them; or, rather, it sets up artificial

differences in their stead,—gradations of rank and position,

which are very often diametrically opposed to those which

Nature establishes. The result of this arrangement is to el-

evate those whom Nature has placed low, and to depress the

few who stand high. These latter, then, usually withdraw

from society, where, as soon as it is at all numerous, vulgarity

reigns supreme.

What offends a great intellect in society is the equality of

rights, leading to equality of pretensions, which everyone

enjoys; while at the same time, inequality of capacity means

1 As our body is concealed by the clothes we wear, so our
mind is veiled in lies. The veil is always there, and it is only
through it that we can sometimes guess at what a man really
thinks; just as from his clothes we arrive at the general shape
of his body.

Schopenhauer

a corresponding disparity of social power. So-called good so-

ciety recognizes every kind of claim but that of intellect, which

is a contraband article; and people are expected to exhibit an

unlimited amount of patience towards every form of folly

and stupidity, perversity and dullness; whilst personal merit

has to beg pardon, as it were, for being present, or else con-

ceal itself altogether. Intellectual superiority offends by its

very existence, without any desire to do so.

The worst of what is called good society is not only that it

offers us the companionship of people who are unable to

win either our praise or our affection, but that it does not

allow of our being that which we naturally are; it compels

us, for the sake of harmony, to shrivel up, or even alter our

shape altogether. Intellectual conversation, whether grave or

humorous, is only fit for intellectual society; it is downright

abhorrent to ordinary people, to please whom it is absolutely

necessary to be commonplace and dull. This demands an act

of severe self-denial; we have to forfeit three-fourths of our-

selves in order to become like other people. No doubt their

company may be set down against our loss in this respect;

but the more a man is worth, the more he will find that what

he gains does not cover what he loses, and that the balance is

on the debit side of the account; for the people with whom

he deals are generally bankrupt,—that is to say, there is noth-

ing to be got from their society which can compensate either

for its boredom, annoyance and disagreeableness, or for the

self-denial which it renders necessary. Accordingly, most so-

ciety is so constituted as to offer a good profit to anyone

who will exchange it for solitude.

Nor is this all. By way of providing a substitute for real—

I mean intellectual—superiority, which is seldom to be met

with, and intolerable when it is found, society has capriciously

adopted a false kind of superiority, conventional in its char-

acter, and resting upon arbitrary principles,—a tradition, as

it were, handed down in the higher circles, and, like a pass-

word, subject to alteration; I refer to bon-ton fashion. When-

ever this kind of superiority comes into collision with the

real kind, its weakness is manifest. Moreover, the presence of

good tone means the absence of good sense.

No man can be in perfect accord with any one but him-

self—not even with a friend or the partner of his life; differ-

ences of individuality and temperament are always bringing

Essays – Volume One

in some degree of discord, though it may be a very slight

one. That genuine, profound peace of mind, that perfect

tranquillity of soul, which, next to health, is the highest bless-

ing the earth can give, is to be attained only in solitude, and,

as a permanent mood, only in complete retirement; and then,

if there is anything great and rich in the man’s own self, his

way of life is the happiest that may be found in this wretched

world.

Let me speak plainly. However close the bond of friend-

ship, love, marriage—a man, ultimately, looks to himself, to

his own welfare alone; at most, to his child’s too. The less

necessity there is for you to come into contact with mankind

in general, in the relations whether of business or of personal

intimacy, the better off you are. Loneliness and solitude have

their evils, it is true; but if you cannot feel them all at once,

you can at least see where they lie; on the other hand, society

is insidious in this respect; as in offering you what appears to

be the pastime of pleasing social intercourse, it works great

and often irreparable mischief. The young should early be

trained to bear being left alone; for it is a source of happiness

and peace of mind.

It follows from this that a man is best off if he be thrown

upon his own resources and can be all in all to himself; and

Cicero goes so far as to say that a man who is in this condition

cannot fail to be very happy—nemo potest non beatissimus esse

qui est totus aptus ex sese, quique in se uno ponit omnia.

The

more a man has in himself, the less others can be to him. The

feeling of self-sufficiency! it is that which restrains those whose

personal value is in itself great riches, from such considerable

sacrifices as are demanded by intercourse with the world, let

alone, then, from actually practicing self-denial by going out

of their way to seek it. Ordinary people are sociable and com-

plaisant just from the very opposite feeling;—to bear others’

company is easier for them than to bear their own. Moreover,

respect is not paid in this world to that which has real merit; it

is reserved for that which has none. So retirement is at once a

proof and a result of being distinguished by the possession of

meritorious qualities. It will therefore show real wisdom on

the part of any one who is worth anything in himself, to limit

his requirements as may be necessary, in order to preserve or

extend his freedom, and,—since a man must come into some

1 Paradoxa Stoidorum: II.

Schopenhauer

relations with his fellow-men—to admit them to his intimacy

as little as possible.

I have said that people are rendered sociable by their abil-

ity to endure solitude, that is to say, their own society. They

become sick of themselves. It is this vacuity of soul which

drives them to intercourse with others,—to travels in for-

eign countries. Their mind is wanting in elasticity; it has no

movement of its own, and so they try to give it some,—by

drink, for instance. How much drunkenness is due to this

cause alone! They are always looking for some form of ex-

citement, of the strongest kind they can bear—the excite-

ment of being with people of like nature with themselves;

and if they fail in this, their mind sinks by its own weight,

and they fall into a grievous lethargy.

Such people, it may

be said, possess only a small fraction of humanity in them-

selves; and it requires a great many of them put together to

make up a fair amount of it,—to attain any degree of con-

sciousness as men. A man, in the full sense of the word,—a

man par excellence—does not represent a fraction, but a whole

number: he is complete in himself.

Ordinary society is, in this respect, very like the kind of

music to be obtained from an orchestra composed of Rus-

sian horns. Each horn has only one note; and the music is

produced by each note coming in just at the right moment.

In the monotonous sound of a single horn, you have a pre-

cise illustration of the effect of most people’s minds. How

1 It is a well-known fact, that we can more easily bear up
under evils which fall upon a great many people besides our-
selves. As boredom seems to be an evil of this kind, people
band together to offer it a common resistance. The love of
life is at bottom only the fear of death; and, in the same way,
the social impulse does not rest directly upon the love of
society, but upon the fear of solitude; it is not alone the charm
of being in others’ company that people seek, it is the dreary
oppression of being alone—the monotony of their own con-

sciousness—that they would avoid. They will do anything
to escape it,—even tolerate bad companions, and put up with
the feeling of constraint which all society involves, in this
case a very burdensome one. But if aversion to such society
conquers the aversion to being alone, they become accus-
tomed to solitude and hardened to its immediate effects. They
no longer find solitude to be such a very bad thing, and
settle down comfortably to it without any hankering after
society;—and this, partly because it is only indirectly that
they need others’ company, and partly because they have be-
come accustomed to the benefits of being alone.

Essays – Volume One

often there seems to be only one thought there! and no room

for any other. It is easy to see why people are so bored; and

also why they are sociable, why they like to go about in

crowds—why mankind is so gregarious. It is the monotony

of his own nature that makes a man find solitude intoler-

able. Omnis stultitia laborat fastidio sui: folly is truly its own

burden. Put a great many men together, and you may get

some result—some music from your horns!

A man of intellect is like an artist who gives a concert with-

out any help from anyone else, playing on a single instru-

ment—a piano, say, which is a little orchestra in itself. Such

a man is a little world in himself; and the effect produced by

various instruments together, he produces single-handed, in

the unity of his own consciousness. Like the piano, he has

no place in a symphony: he is a soloist and performs by him-

self,—in solitude, it may be; or, if in company with other

instruments, only as principal; or for setting the tone, as in

singing. However, those who are fond of society from time

to time may profit by this simile, and lay it down as a general

rule that deficiency of quality in those we meet may be to

some extent compensated by an increase in quantity. One

man’s company may be quite enough, if he is clever; but

where you have only ordinary people to deal with, it is advis-

able to have a great many of them, so that some advantage

may accrue by letting them all work together,—on the anal-

ogy of the horns; and may Heaven grant you patience for

your task!

That mental vacuity and barrenness of soul to which I have

alluded, is responsible for another misfortune. When men of

the better class form a society for promoting some noble or

ideal aim, the result almost always is that the innumerable

mob of humanity comes crowding in too, as it always does

everywhere, like vermin—their object being to try and get rid

of boredom, or some other defect of their nature; and any-

thing that will effect that, they seize upon at once, without the

slightest discrimination. Some of them will slip into that soci-

ety, or push themselves in, and then either soon destroy it

altogether, or alter it so much that in the end it comes to have

a purpose the exact opposite of that which it had at first.

This is not the only point of view from which the social

impulse may be regarded. On cold days people manage to

get some warmth by crowding together; and you can warm

Schopenhauer

your mind in the same way—by bringing it into contact

with others. But a man who has a great deal of intellectual

warmth in himself will stand in no need of such resources. I

have written a little fable illustrating this: it may be found

elsewhere.

As a general rule, it may be said that a man’s

sociability stands very nearly in inverse ratio to his intellec-

tual value: to say that “so and so” is very unsociable, is al-

most tantamount to saying that he is a man of great capacity.

Solitude is doubly advantageous to such a man. Firstly, it

allows him to be with himself, and, secondly, it prevents him

being with others—an advantage of great moment; for how

much constraint, annoyance, and even danger there is in all

intercourse with the world. Tout notre mal, says La Bruyère,

vient de ne pouvoir être seul. It is really a very risky, nay, a fatal

thing, to be sociable; because it means contact with natures,

the great majority of which are bad morally, and dull or per-

verse, intellectually. To be unsociable is not to care about

such people; and to have enough in oneself to dispense with

the necessity of their company is a great piece of good for-

tune; because almost all our sufferings spring from having to

do with other people; and that destroys the peace of mind,

which, as I have said, comes next after health in the elements

of happiness. Peace of mind is impossible without a consid-

erable amount of solitude. The Cynics renounced all private

property in order to attain the bliss of having nothing to

trouble them; and to renounce society with the same object

1: Translator’s Note. The passage to which Schopenhauer re-
fers is Parerga: vol. ii. § 413 (4th edition). The fable is of
certain porcupines, who huddled together for warmth on a
cold day; but as they began to prick one another with their
quills, they were obliged to disperse. However the cold drove
them together again, when just the same thing happened. At
last, after many turns of huddling and dispersing, they dis-
covered that they would be best off by remaining at a little
distance from one another. In the same way, the need of
society drives the human porcupines together—only to be
mutually repelled by the many prickly and disagreeable quali-
ties of their nature. The moderate distance which they at last
discover to be the only tolerable condition of intercourse, is
the code of politeness and fine manners; and those who trans-
gress it are roughly told—in the English phrase—to keep their
distance. By this arrangement the mutual need of warmth is
only very moderately satisfied,—but then people do not get
pricked. A man who has some heat in himself prefers to re-
main outside, where he will neither prick other people nor
get pricked himself.

Essays – Volume One

is the wisest thing a man can do. Bernardin de Saint Pierre

has the very excellent and pertinent remark that to be spar-

ing in regard to food is a means of health; in regard to soci-

ety, a means of tranquillity—la diète des ailmens nous rend la

santé du corps, et celle des hommes la tranquillité de l’âme. To

be soon on friendly, or even affectionate, terms with solitude

is like winning a gold mine; but this is not something which

everybody can do. The prime reason for social intercourse is

mutual need; and as soon as that is satisfied, boredom drives

people together once more. If it were not for these two rea-

sons, a man would probably elect to remain alone; if only

because solitude is the sole condition of life which gives full

play to that feeling of exclusive importance which every man

has in his own eyes,—as if he were the only person in the

world! a feeling which, in the throng and press of real life,

soon shrivels up to nothing, getting, at every step, a painful

démenti. From this point of view it may be said that solitude

is the original and natural state of man, where, like another

Adam, he is as happy as his nature will allow.

But still, had Adam no father or mother? There is another

sense in which solitude is not the natural state; for, at his

entrance into the world, a man finds himself with parents,

brothers, sisters, that is to say, in society, and not alone. Ac-

cordingly it cannot be said that the love of solitude is an

original characteristic of human nature; it is rather the result

of experience and reflection, and these in their turn depend

upon the development of intellectual power, and increase

with the years.

Speaking generally, sociability stands in inverse ratio with

age. A little child raises a piteous cry of fright if it is left alone

for only a few minutes; and later on, to be shut up by itself is

a great punishment. Young people soon get on very friendly

terms with one another; it is only the few among them of

any nobility of mind who are glad now and then to be

alone;—but to spend the whole day thus would be disagree-

able. A grown-up man can easily do it; it is little trouble to

him to be much alone, and it becomes less and less trouble

as he advances in years. An old man who has outlived all his

friends, and is either indifferent or dead to the pleasures of

life, is in his proper element in solitude; and in individual

cases the special tendency to retirement and seclusion will

always be in direct proportion to intellectual capacity.

Schopenhauer

For this tendency is not, as I have said, a purely natural

one; it does not come into existence as a direct need of hu-

man nature; it is rather the effect of the experience we go

through, the product of reflection upon what our needs re-

ally are; proceeding, more especially, from the insight we at-

tain into the wretched stuff of which most people are made,

whether you look at their morals or their intellects. The worst

of it all is that, in the individual, moral and intellectual short-

comings are closely connected and play into each other’s

hands, so that all manner of disagreeable results are obtained,

which make intercourse with most people not only unpleas-

ant but intolerable. Hence, though the world contains many

things which are thoroughly bad, the worst thing in it is

society. Even Voltaire, that sociable Frenchman, was obliged

to admit that there are everywhere crowds of people not worth

talking to: la terre est couverte de gens qui ne méritent pas qu’on

leur parle. And Petrarch gives a similar reason for wishing to

be alone—that tender spirit! so strong and constant in his

love of seclusion. The streams, the plains and woods know

well, he says, how he has tried to escape the perverse and

stupid people who have missed the way to heaven:—

Cercato ho sempre solitaria vita

(Le rive il sanno, e le campagne e i boschi)

Per fuggir quest’ ingegni storti e loschi

Che la strada del ciel’ hanno smarrita.

He pursues the same strain in that delightful book of his,

DeVita Solitaria, which seems to have given Zimmerman

the idea of his celebrated work on Solitude. It is the second-

ary and indirect character of the love of seclusion to which

Chamfort alludes in the following passage, couched in his

sarcastic vein: On dit quelquefois d’un homme qui vit seul, il

n’aime pas la société. C’est souvent comme si on disait d’un

homme qu’il n’aime pas la promenade, sous le pretexte qu’il ne

se promène pas volontiers le soir dans le forêt de Bondy.

You will find a similar sentiment expressed by the Persian

poet Sadi, in his Garden of Roses. Since that time, he says, we

have taken leave of society, preferring the path of seclusion; for

there is safety in solitude. Angelus Silesius,

a very gentle and

1 Translator’s Note. Angelus Silesius, pseudonym for Johannes
Scheffler, a physician and mystic poet of the seventeenth
century (1624-77).

Essays – Volume One

Christian writer, confesses to the same feeling, in his own

mythical language. Herod, he says, is the common enemy;

and when, as with Joseph, God warns us of danger, we fly

from the world to solitude, from Bethlehem to Egypt; or

else suffering and death await us!—

Herodes ist ein Feind; der Joseph der Verstand,

Dem machte Gott die Gefahr im Traum (in Geist) bekannt;

Die Welt ist Bethlehem, Aegypten Einsamkeit,

Fleuch, meine Seele! fleuch, sonst stirbest du vor Leid.

Giordano Bruno also declares himself a friend of seclu-

sion. Tanti uomini, he says, che in terra hanno voluto gustare

vita celeste, dissero con una voce, “ecce elongavi fugiens et mansi

in solitudine”—those who in this world have desired a fore-

taste of the divine life, have always proclaimed with one voice:

Lo! then would I wander far off;

I would lodge in the wilderness.

1 Psalms, lv. 7.

And in the work from which I have already quoted, Sadi

says of himself: In disgust with my friends at Damascus, I with-

drew into the desert about Jerusalem, to seek the society of the

beasts of the field. In short, the same thing has been said by all

whom Prometheus has formed out of better clay. What plea-

sure could they find in the company of people with whom

their only common ground is just what is lowest and least

noble in their own nature—the part of them that is com-

monplace, trivial and vulgar? What do they want with people

who cannot rise to a higher level, and for whom nothing

remains but to drag others down to theirs? for this is what

they aim at. It is an aristocratic feeling that is at the bottom

of this propensity to seclusion and solitude.

Rascals are always sociable—more’s the pity! and the chief

sign that a man has any nobility in his character is the little

pleasure he takes in others’ company. He prefers solitude more

and more, and, in course of time, comes to see that, with few

exceptions, the world offers no choice beyond solitude on

one side and vulgarity on the other. This may sound a hard

thing to say; but even Angelus Silesius, with all his Christian

feelings of gentleness and love, was obliged to admit the truth

Schopenhauer

of it. However painful solitude may be, he says, be careful

not to be vulgar; for then you may find a desert everywhere:—

Die Einsamkeit ist noth: doch sei nur nicht gemein,

So kannst du überall in einer Wüste sein.

It is natural for great minds—the true teachers of humanity—

to care little about the constant company of others; just as

little as the schoolmaster cares for joining in the gambols of

the noisy crowd of boys which surround him. The mission of

these great minds is to guide mankind over the sea of error to

the haven of truth—to draw it forth from the dark abysses of

a barbarous vulgarity up into the light of culture and refine-

ment. Men of great intellect live in the world without really

belonging to it; and so, from their earliest years, they feel that

there is a perceptible difference between them and other people.

But it is only gradually, with the lapse of years, that they come

to a clear understanding of their position. Their intellectual

isolation is then reinforced by actual seclusion in their man-

ner of life; they let no one approach who is not in some degree

emancipated from the prevailing vulgarity.

From what has been said it is obvious that the love of soli-

tude is not a direct, original impulse in human nature, but

rather something secondary and of gradual growth. It is the

more distinguishing feature of nobler minds, developed not

without some conquest of natural desires, and now and then

in actual opposition to the promptings of Mephistopheles—

bidding you exchange a morose and soul-destroying solitude

for life amongst men, for society; even the worst, he says,

will give a sense of human fellowship:—

Hör’ auf mit deinem Gram zu spielen,

Der, wie ein Geier, dir am Leben frisst:

Die schlechteste Gesellschaft lässt dich fühlen

Dass du ein Mensch mit Menschen bist.

To be alone is the fate of all great minds—a fate deplored at

times, but still always chosen as the less grievous of two evils.

As the years increase, it always becomes easier to say, Dare to

be wise—sapere aude. And after sixty, the inclination to be

alone grows into a kind of real, natural instinct; for at that

1 Goethe’s Faust, Part I., 1281-5.

Essays – Volume One

age everything combines in favor of it. The strongest im-

pulse—the love of woman’s society—has little or no effect;

it is the sexless condition of old age which lays the founda-

tion of a certain self-sufficiency, and that gradually absorbs

all desire for others’ company. A thousand illusions and fol-

lies are overcome; the active years of life are in most cases

gone; a man has no more expectations or plans or inten-

tions. The generation to which he belonged has passed away,

and a new race has sprung up which looks upon him as es-

sentially outside its sphere of activity. And then the years

pass more quickly as we become older, and we want to de-

vote our remaining time to the intellectual rather than to the

practical side of life. For, provided that the mind retains its

faculties, the amount of knowledge and experience we have

acquired, together with the facility we have gained in the use

of our powers, makes it then more than ever easy and inter-

esting to us to pursue the study of any subject. A thousand

things become clear which were formerly enveloped in ob-

scurity, and results are obtained which give a feeling of diffi-

culties overcome. From long experience of men, we cease to

expect much from them; we find that, on the whole, people

do not gain by a nearer acquaintance; and that—apart from

a few rare and fortunate exceptions—we have come across

none but defective specimens of human nature which it is

advisable to leave in peace. We are no more subject to the

ordinary illusions of life; and as, in individual instances, we

soon see what a man is made of, we seldom feel any inclina-

tion to come into closer relations with him. Finally, isola-

tion—our own society—has become a habit, as it were a

second nature to us, more especially if we have been on

friendly terms with it from our youth up. The love of soli-

tude which was formerly indulged only at the expense of our

desire for society, has now come to be the simple quality of

our natural disposition—the element proper to our life, as

water to a fish. This is why anyone who possesses a unique

individuality—unlike others and therefore necessarily iso-

lated—feels that, as he becomes older, his position is no longer

so burdensome as when he was young.

For, as a matter of fact, this very genuine privilege of old

age is one which can be enjoyed only if a man is possessed of

a certain amount of intellect; it will be appreciated most of

all where there is real mental power; but in some degree by

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every one. It is only people of very barren and vulgar nature

who will be just as sociable in their old age as they were in

their youth. But then they become troublesome to a society

to which they are no longer suited, and, at most, manage to

be tolerated; whereas, they were formerly in great request.

There is another aspect of this inverse proportion between

age and sociability—the way in which it conduces to educa-

tion. The younger that people are, the more in every respect

they have to learn; and it is just in youth that Nature pro-

vides a system of mutual education, so that mere intercourse

with others, at that time of life, carries instruction with it.

Human society, from this point of view, resembles a huge

academy of learning, on the Bell and Lancaster system, op-

posed to the system of education by means of books and

schools, as something artificial and contrary to the institu-

tions of Nature. It is therefore a very suitable arrangement

that, in his young days, a man should be a very diligent stu-

dent at the place of learning provided by Nature herself.

But there is nothing in life which has not some drawback—

nihil est ab omni parte beatum, as Horace says; or, in the

words of an Indian proverb, no lotus without a stalk. Seclu-

sion, which has so many advantages, has also its little annoy-

ances and drawbacks, which are small, however, in compari-

son with those of society; hence anyone who is worth much

in himself will get on better without other people than with

them. But amongst the disadvantages of seclusion there is

one which is not so easy to see as the rest. It is this: when

people remain indoors all day, they become physically very

sensitive to atmospheric changes, so that every little draught

is enough to make them ill; so with our temper; a long course

of seclusion makes it so sensitive that the most trivial inci-

dents, words, or even looks, are sufficient to disturb or to

vex and offend us—little things which are unnoticed by those

who live in the turmoil of life.

When you find human society disagreeable and feel your-

self justified in flying to solitude, you can be so constituted

as to be unable to bear the depression of it for any length of

time, which will probably be the case if you are young. Let

me advise you, then, to form the habit of taking some of

your solitude with you into society, to learn to be to some

extent alone even though you are in company; not to say at

once what you think, and, on the other hand, not to attach

Essays – Volume One

too precise a meaning to what others say; rather, not to ex-

pect much of them, either morally or intellectually, and to

strengthen yourself in the feeling of indifference to their

opinion, which is the surest way of always practicing a praise-

worthy toleration. If you do that, you will not live so much

with other people, though you may appear to move amongst

them: your relation to them will be of a purely objective

character. This precaution will keep you from too close con-

tact with society, and therefore secure you against being con-

taminated or even outraged by it.

Society is in this respect

like a fire—the wise man warming himself at a proper dis-

tance from it; not coming too close, like the fool, who, on

getting scorched, runs away and shivers in solitude, loud in

his complaint that the fire burns.

1 This restricted, or, as it were, entrenched kind of sociabil-
ity has been dramatically illustrated in a play—well worth

reading—of Moratin’s, entitled El Café o sea la Comedia

Nuova (The Cafe or the New Comedy), chiefly by one of

the characters, Don Pedro and especially in the second and

third scenes of the first act.

SECTION 10. Envy is natural to man; and still, it is at once

a vice and a source of misery.

We should treat it as the en-

emy of our happiness, and stifle it like an evil thought. This

is the advice given by Seneca; as he well puts it, we shall be

pleased with what we have, if we avoid the self-torture of

comparing our own lot with some other and happier one—

nostra nos sine comparatione delectent; nunquam erit felix quem

torquebit felicior.

And again, quum adspexeris quot te ante-

cedent, cogita quot sequantur

—if a great many people ap-

pear to be better off than yourself, think how many there are

in a worse position. It is a fact that if real calamity comes

upon us, the most effective consolation—though it springs

from the same source as envy—is just the thought of greater

misfortunes than ours; and the next best is the society of

those who are in the same luck as we—the partners of our

sorrows.

1 Envy shows how unhappy people are; and their constant
attention to what others do and leave undone, how much

they are bored.
2: De Ira: iii., 30.
3 Epist. xv.

Schopenhauer

So much for the envy which we may feel towards others.

As regards the envy which we may excite in them, it should

always be remembered that no form of hatred is so impla-

cable as the hatred that comes from envy; and therefore we

should always carefully refrain from doing anything to rouse

it; nay, as with many another form of vice, it is better alto-

gether to renounce any pleasure there may be in it, because

of the serious nature of its consequences.

Aristocracies are of three kinds: (1) of birth and rank; (2)

of wealth; and (3) of intellect. The last is really the most

distinguished of the three, and its claim to occupy the first

position comes to be recognized, if it is only allowed time to

work. So eminent a king as Frederick the Great admitted

it—_les âmes privilegiées rangent à l’égal des souverains_, as

he said to his chamberlain, when the latter expressed his sur-

prise that Voltaire should have a seat at the table reserved for

kings and princes, whilst ministers and generals were rel-

egated to the chamberlain’s.

Every one of these aristocracies is surrounded by a host of

envious persons. If you belong to one of them, they will be

secretly embittered against you; and unless they are restrained

by fear, they will always be anxious to let you understand

that you are no better than they. It is by their anxiety to let you

know this, that they betray how greatly they are conscious

that the opposite is the truth.

The line of conduct to be pursued if you are exposed to

envy, is to keep the envious persons at a distance, and, as far

as possible, avoid all contact with them, so that there may be

a wide gulf fixed between you and them; if this cannot be

done, to bear their attacks with the greatest composure. In

the latter case, the very thing that provokes the attack will

also neutralize it. This is what appears to be generally done.

The members of one of these aristocracies usually get on

very well with those of another, and there is no call for envy

between them, because their several privileges effect an equi-

poise.

Essays – Volume One

SECTION 11. Give mature and repeated consideration to

any plan before you proceed to carry it out; and even after

you have thoroughly turned it over in your mind, make some

concession to the incompetency of human judgment; for it

may always happen that circumstances which cannot be in-

vestigated or foreseen, will come in and upset the whole of

your calculation. This is a reflection that will always influ-

ence the negative side of the balance—a kind of warning to

refrain from unnecessary action in matters of importance—

quieta non movere. But having once made up your mind and

begun your work, you must let it run its course and abide

the result—not worry yourself by fresh reflections on what

is already accomplished, or by a renewal of your scruples on

the score of possible danger: free your mind from the subject

altogether, and refuse to go into it again, secure in the thought

that you gave it mature attention at the proper time. This is

the same advice as is given by an Italian proverb—legala bene

e poi lascia la andare—which Goethe has translated thus:

See well to your girths, and then ride on boldly.

1 It may be observed, in passing, that a great many of the
maxims which Goethe puts under the head of Proverbial, are
translations from the Italian.

And if, notwithstanding that, you fail, it is because human

affairs are the sport of chance and error. Socrates, the wisest

of men, needed the warning voice of his good genius, or

[Greek: daimonion], to enable him to do what was right in

regard to his own personal affairs, or at any rate, to avoid

mistakes; which argues that the human intellect is incompe-

tent for the purpose. There is a saying—which is reported to

have originated with one of the Popes—that when misfor-

tune happens to us, the blame of it, at least in some degree,

attaches to ourselves. If this is not true absolutely and in

every instance, it is certainly true in the great majority of

cases. It even looks as if this truth had a great deal to do with

the effort people make as far as possible to conceal their mis-

fortunes, and to put the best face they can upon them, for

fear lest their misfortunes may show how much they are to

blame.

Schopenhauer

SECTION 12. In the case of a misfortune which has al-

ready happened and therefore cannot be altered, you should

not allow yourself to think that it might have been other-

wise; still less, that it might have been avoided by such and

such means; for reflections of this kind will only add to your

distress and make it intolerable, so that you will become a

tormentor to yourself—[Greek: heautontimoroumeaeos]. It

is better to follow the example of King David; who, as long

as his son lay on the bed of sickness, assailed Jehovah with

unceasing supplications and entreaties for his recovery; but

when he was dead, snapped his fingers and thought no more

of it. If you are not light-hearted enough for that, you can

take refuge in fatalism, and have the great truth revealed to

you that everything which happens is the result of necessity,

and therefore inevitable.

However good this advice may be, it is one-sided and par-

tial. In relieving and quieting us for the moment, it is no

doubt effective enough; but when our misfortunes have re-

sulted—as is usually the case—from our own carelessness or

folly, or, at any rate, partly by our own fault, it is a good

thing to consider how they might have been avoided, and to

consider it often in spite of its being a tender subject—a

salutary form of self-discipline, which will make us wiser and

better men for the future. If we have made obvious mistakes,

we should not try, as we generally do, to gloss them over, or

to find something to excuse or extenuate them; we should

admit to ourselves that we have committed faults, and open

our eyes wide to all their enormity, in order that we may

firmly resolve to avoid them in time to come. To be sure,

that means a great deal of self-inflicted pain, in the shape of

discontent, but it should be remembered that to spare the

rod is to spoil the child—[Greek: ho mae dareis anthropos

ou paideuetai].

1 Menander. Monost: 422.

Essays – Volume One

SECTION 13. In all matters affecting our weal or woe, we

should be careful not to let our imagination run away with

us, and build no castles in the air. In the first place, they are

expensive to build, because we have to pull them down again

immediately, and that is a source of grief. We should be still

more on our guard against distressing our hearts by depict-

ing possible misfortunes. If these were misfortunes of a purely

imaginary kind, or very remote and unlikely, we should at

once see, on awaking from our dream, that the whole thing

was mere illusion; we should rejoice all the more in a reality

better than our dreams, or at most, be warned against mis-

fortunes which, though very remote, were still possible. These,

however, are not the sort of playthings in which imagination

delights; it is only in idle hours that we build castles in the

air, and they are always of a pleasing description. The matter

which goes to form gloomy dreams are mischances which to

some extent really threaten us, though it be from some dis-

tance; imagination makes us look larger and nearer and more

terrible than they are in reality. This is a kind of dream which

cannot be so readily shaken off on awaking as a pleasant

one; for a pleasant dream is soon dispelled by reality, leav-

ing, at most, a feeble hope lying in the lap of possibility.

Once we have abandoned ourselves to a fit of the blues, vi-

sions are conjured up which do not so easily vanish again;

for it is always just possible that the visions may be realized.

But we are not always able to estimate the exact degree of

possibility: possibility may easily pass into probability; and

thus we deliver ourselves up to torture. Therefore we should

be careful not to be over-anxious on any matter affecting our

weal or our woe, not to carry our anxiety to unreasonable or

injudicious limits; but coolly and dispassionately to deliber-

ate upon the matter, as though it were an abstract question

which did not touch us in particular. We should give no play

to imagination here; for imagination is not judgment—it

only conjures up visions, inducing an unprofitable and of-

ten very painful mood.

The rule on which I am here insisting should be most care-

fully observed towards evening. For as darkness makes us

timid and apt to see terrifying shapes everywhere, there is

something similar in the effect of indistinct thought; and

uncertainty always brings with it a sense of danger. Hence,

towards evening, when our powers of thought and judgment

Schopenhauer

are relaxed,—at the hour, as it were, of subjective darkness,—

the intellect becomes tired, easily confused, and unable to

get at the bottom of things; and if, in that state, we meditate

on matters of personal interest to ourselves, they soon as-

sume a dangerous and terrifying aspect. This is mostly the

case at night, when we are in bed; for then the mind is fully

relaxed, and the power of judgment quite unequal to its du-

ties; but imagination is still awake. Night gives a black look

to everything, whatever it may be. This is why our thoughts,

just before we go to sleep, or as we lie awake through the

hours of the night, are usually such confusions and perver-

sions of facts as dreams themselves; and when our thoughts

at that time are concentrated upon our own concerns, they

are generally as black and monstrous as possible. In the morn-

ing all such nightmares vanish like dreams: as the Spanish

proverb has it, noche tinta, bianco el dia—the night is col-

ored, the day is white. But even towards nightfall, as soon as

the candles are lit, the mind, like the eye, no longer sees

things so clearly as by day: it is a time unsuited to serious

meditation, especially on unpleasant subjects. The morning

is the proper time for that—as indeed for all efforts without

exception, whether mental or bodily. For the morning is the

youth of the day, when everything is bright, fresh, and easy

of attainment; we feel strong then, and all our faculties are

completely at our disposal. Do not shorten the morning by

getting up late, or waste it in unworthy occupations or in

talk; look upon it as the quintessence of life, as to a certain

extent sacred. Evening is like old age: we are languid, talk-

ative, silly. Each day is a little life: every waking and rising a

little birth, every fresh morning a little youth, every going to

rest and sleep a little death.

But condition of health, sleep, nourishment, temperature,

weather, surroundings, and much else that is purely exter-

nal, have, in general, an important influence upon our mood

and therefore upon our thoughts. Hence both our view of

any matter and our capacity for any work are very much

subject to time and place. So it is best to profit by a good

mood—for how seldom it comes!—

Nehmt die gute Stimmung wahr,

Denn sie kommt so selten.

1 Goethe.

Essays – Volume One

We are not always able to form new ideas about; our sur-

roundings, or to command original thoughts: they come if

they will, and when they will. And so, too, we cannot always

succeed in completely considering some personal matter at

the precise time at which we have determined beforehand to

consider it, and just when we set ourselves to do so. For the

peculiar train of thought which is favorable to it may sud-

denly become active without any special call being made upon

it, and we may then follow it up with keen interest. In this

way reflection, too, chooses its own time.

This reining-in of the imagination which I am recommend-

ing, will also forbid us to summon up the memory of the

past misfortune, to paint a dark picture of the injustice or

harm that has been done us, the losses we have sustained,

the insults, slights and annoyances to which we have been

exposed: for to do that is to rouse into fresh life all those

hateful passions long laid asleep—the anger and resentment

which disturb and pollute our nature. In an excellent par-

able, Proclus, the Neoplatonist, points out how in every town

the mob dwells side by side with those who are rich and

distinguished: so, too, in every man, be he never so noble

and dignified, there is, in the depth of his nature, a mob of

low and vulgar desires which constitute him an animal. It

will not do to let this mob revolt or even so much as peep

forth from its hiding-place; it is hideous of mien, and its

rebel leaders are those flights of imagination which I have

been describing. The smallest annoyance, whether it comes

from our fellow-men or from the things around us, may swell

up into a monster of dreadful aspect, putting us at our wits’

end—and all because we go on brooding over our troubles

and painting them in the most glaring colors and on the

largest scale. It is much better to take a very calm and prosaic

view of what is disagreeable; for that is the easiest way of

bearing it.

If you hold small objects close to your eyes, you limit your

field of vision and shut out the world. And, in the same way,

the people or the things which stand nearest, even though

they are of the very smallest consequence, are apt to claim an

amount of attention much beyond their due, occupying us

disagreeably, and leaving no room for serious thoughts and

affairs of importance. We ought to work against this ten-

dency.

Schopenhauer

SECTION 14. The sight of things which do not belong to

us is very apt to raise the thought: Ah, if that were only mine!

making us sensible of our privation. Instead of that we should

do better by more frequently putting to ourselves the oppo-

site case: Ah, if that were not mine. What I mean is that we

should sometimes try to look upon our possessions in the

light in which they would appear if we had lost them; what-

ever they may be, property, health, friends, a wife or child or

someone else we love, our horse or our dog—it is usually

only when we have lost them that we begin to find out their

value. But if we come to look at things in the way I recom-

mend, we shall be doubly the gainers; we shall at once get

more pleasure out of them than we did before, and we shall

do everything in our power to prevent the loss of them; for

instance, by not risking our property, or angering our friends,

or exposing our wives to temptation, or being careless about

our children’s health, and so on.

We often try to banish the gloom and despondency of the

present by speculating upon our chances of success in the

future; a process which leads us to invent a great many chi-

merical hopes. Every one of them contains the germ of illu-

sion, and disappointment is inevitable when our hopes are

shattered by the hard facts of life.

It is less hurtful to take the chances of misfortune as a

theme for speculation; because, in doing so, we provide our-

selves at once with measures of precaution against it, and a

pleasant surprise when it fails to make its appearance. Is it

not a fact that we always feel a marked improvement in our

spirits when we begin to get over a period of anxiety? I may

go further and say that there is some use in occasionally look-

ing upon terrible misfortunes—such as might happen to us—

as though they had actually happened, for then the trivial

reverses which subsequently come in reality, are much easier

to bear. It is a source of consolation to look back upon those

great misfortunes which never happened. But in following

out this rule, care must be taken not to neglect what I have

said in the preceding section.

Essays – Volume One

SECTION 15. The things which engage our attention—

whether they are matters of business or ordinary events—

are of such diverse kinds, that, if taken quite separately and

in no fixed order or relation, they present a medley of the

most glaring contrasts, with nothing in common, except that

they one and all affect us in particular. There must be a cor-

responding abruptness in the thoughts and anxieties which

these various matters arouse in us, if our thoughts are to be

in keeping with their various subjects. Therefore, in setting

about anything, the first step is to withdraw our attention

from everything else: this will enable us to attend to each

matter at its own time, and to enjoy or put up with it, quite

apart from any thought of our remaining interests. Our

thoughts must be arranged, as it were, in little drawers, so

that we may open one without disturbing any of the others.

In this way we can keep the heavy burden of anxiety from

weighing upon us so much as to spoil the little pleasures of

the present, or from robbing us of our rest; otherwise the

consideration of one matter will interfere with every other,

and attention to some important business may lead us to

neglect many affairs which happen to be of less moment. It

is most important for everyone who is capable of higher and

nobler thoughts to keep their mind from being so completely

engrossed with private affairs and vulgar troubles as to let

them take up all his attention and crowd out worthier mat-

ter; for that is, in a very real sense, to lose sight of the true

end of life—propter vitam vivendi perdere causas.

Of course for this—as for so much else—self-control is

necessary; without it, we cannot manage ourselves in the way

I have described. And self-control may not appear so very

difficult, if we consider that every man has to submit to a

great deal of very severe control on the part of his surround-

ings, and that without it no form of existence is possible.

Further, a little self-control at the right moment may pre-

vent much subsequent compulsion at the hands of others;

just as a very small section of a circle close to the centre may

correspond to a part near the circumference a hundred times

as large. Nothing will protect us from external compulsion

so much as the control of ourselves; and, as Seneca says, to

submit yourself to reason is the way to make everything else

submit to you—si tibi vis omnia subjicere, te subjice rationi.

Self-control, too, is something which we have in our own

Schopenhauer

power; and if the worst comes to the worst, and it touches us

in a very sensitive part, we can always relax its severity. But

other people will pay no regard to our feelings, if they have

to use compulsion, and we shall be treated without pity or

mercy. Therefore it will be prudent to anticipate compulsion

by self-control.

SECTION 16. We must set limits to our wishes, curb our

desires, moderate our anger, always remembering that an

individual can attain only an infinitesimal share in anything

that is worth having; and that, on the other hand, everyone

must incur many of the ills of life; in a word, we must bear

and forbear—abstinere et sustinere; and if we fail to observe

this rule, no position of wealth or power will prevent us from

feeling wretched. This is what Horace means when he rec-

ommends us to study carefully and inquire diligently what

will best promote a tranquil life—not to be always agitated

by fruitless desires and fears and hopes for things, which,

after all, are not worth very much:—

Inter cuncta leges et percontabere doctos

Qua ratione queas traducere leniter aevum;

Ne te semper inops agitet vexetque cupido,

Ne pavor, et rerum mediocriter utilium spes.

1 Epist. I. xviii. 97.

Essays – Volume One

SECTION 17. Life consists in movement, says Aristotle;

and he is obviously right. We exist, physically, because our

organism is the seat of constant motion; and if we are to

exist intellectually, it can only be by means of continual oc-

cupation—no matter with what so long as it is some form of

practical or mental activity. You may see that this is so by the

way in which people who have no work or nothing to think

about, immediately begin to beat the devil’s tattoo with their

knuckles or a stick or anything that comes handy. The truth

is, that our nature is essentially restless in its character: we

very soon get tired of having nothing to do; it is intolerable

boredom. This impulse to activity should be regulated, and

some sort of method introduced into it, which of itself will

enhance the satisfaction we obtain. Activity!—doing some-

thing, if possible creating something, at any rate learning

something—how fortunate it is that men cannot exist with-

out that! A man wants to use his strength, to see, if he can,

what effect it will produce; and he will get the most com-

plete satisfaction of this desire if he can make or construct

something—be it a book or a basket. There is a direct plea-

sure in seeing work grow under one’s hands day by day, until

at last it is finished. This is the pleasure attaching to a work

of art or a manuscript, or even mere manual labor; and, of

course, the higher the work, the greater pleasure it will give.

From this point of view, those are happiest of all who are

conscious of the power to produce great works animated by

some significant purpose: it gives a higher kind of interest—

a sort of rare flavor—to the whole of their life, which, by its

absence from the life of the ordinary man, makes it, in com-

parison, something very insipid. For richly endowed natures,

life and the world have a special interest beyond the mere

everyday personal interest which so many others share; and

something higher than that—a formal interest. It is from life

and the world that they get the material for their works; and

as soon as they are freed from the pressure of personal needs,

it is to the diligent collection of material that they devote

their whole existence. So with their intellect: it is to some

extent of a two-fold character, and devoted partly to the or-

dinary affairs of every day—those matters of will which are

common to them and the rest of mankind, and partly to

their peculiar work—the pure and objective contemplation

of existence. And while, on the stage of the world, most men

Schopenhauer

play their little part and then pass away, the genius lives a

double life, at once an actor and a spectator.

Let everyone, then, do something, according to the mea-

sure of his capacities. To have no regular work, no set sphere

of activity—what a miserable thing it is! How often long

travels undertaken for pleasure make a man downright un-

happy; because the absence of anything that can be called

occupation forces him, as it were, out of his right element.

Effort, struggles with difficulties! that is as natural to a man

as grubbing in the ground is to a mole. To have all his wants

satisfied is something intolerable—the feeling of stagnation

which comes from pleasures that last too long. To overcome

difficulties is to experience the full delight of existence, no

matter where the obstacles are encountered; whether in the

affairs of life, in commerce or business; or in mental effort—

the spirit of inquiry that tries to master its subject. There is

always something pleasurable in the struggle and the vic-

tory. And if a man has no opportunity to excite himself, he

will do what he can to create one, and according to his indi-

vidual bent, he will hunt or play Cup and Ball: or led on by

this unsuspected element in his nature, he will pick a quarrel

with some one, or hatch a plot or intrigue, or take to swin-

dling and rascally courses generally—all to put an end to a

state of repose which is intolerable. As I have remarked,

difficilis in otio quies—it is difficult to keep quiet if you have

nothing to do.

Essays – Volume One

SECTION 18. A man should avoid being led on by the

phantoms of his imagination. This is not the same thing as

to submit to the guidance of ideas clearly thought out: and

yet these are rules of life which most people pervert. If you

examine closely into the circumstances which, in any delib-

eration, ultimately turn the scale in favor of some particular

course, you will generally find that the decision is influenced,

not by any clear arrangement of ideas leading to a formal

judgment, but by some fanciful picture which seems to stand

for one of the alternatives in question.

In one of Voltaire’s or Diderot’s romances,—I forget the

precise reference,—the hero, standing like a young Hercules

at the parting of ways, can see no other representation of

Virtue than his old tutor holding a snuff-box in his left hand,

from which he takes a pinch and moralizes; whilst Vice ap-

pears in the shape of his mother’s chambermaid. It is in youth,

more especially, that the goal of our efforts comes to be a

fanciful picture of happiness, which continues to hover be-

fore our eyes sometimes for half and even for the whole of

our life—a sort of mocking spirit; for when we think our

dream is to be realized, the picture fades away, leaving us the

knowledge that nothing of what it promised is actually ac-

complished. How often this is so with the visions of domes-

ticity—the detailed picture of what our home will be like;

or, of life among our fellow-citizens or in society; or, again,

of living in the country—the kind of house we shall have, its

surroundings, the marks of honor and respect that will be

paid to us, and so on,—whatever our hobby may be; chaque

fou a sa marotte. It is often the same, too, with our dreams

about one we love. And this is all quite natural; for the vi-

sions we conjure up affect us directly, as though they were

real objects; and so they exercise a more immediate influ-

ence upon our will than an abstract idea, which gives merely

a vague, general outline, devoid of details; and the details are

just the real part of it. We can be only indirectly affected by

an abstract idea, and yet it is the abstract idea alone which

will do as much as it promises; and it is the function of edu-

cation to teach us to put our trust in it. Of course the ab-

stract idea must be occasionally explained—paraphrased, as

it were—by the aid of pictures; but discreetly, cum grano salis.

Schopenhauer

SECTION 19. The preceding rule may be taken as a special

case of the more general maxim, that a man should never let

himself be mastered by the impressions of the moment, or

indeed by outward appearances at all, which are incompara-

bly more powerful in their effects than the mere play of

thought or a train of ideas; not because these momentary

impressions are rich in virtue of the data they supply,—it is

often just the contrary,—but because they are something

palpable to the senses and direct in their working; they forc-

ibly invade our mind, disturbing our repose and shattering

our resolutions.

It is easy to understand that the thing which lies before

our very eyes will produce the whole of its effect at once, but

that time and leisure are necessary for the working of thought

and the appreciation of argument, as it is impossible to think

of everything at one and the same moment. This is why we

are so allured by pleasure, in spite of all our determination to

resist it; or so much annoyed by a criticism, even though we

know that its author it totally incompetent to judge; or so

irritated by an insult, though it comes from some very con-

temptible quarter. In the same way, to mention no other

instances, ten reasons for thinking that there is no danger

may be outweighed by one mistaken notion that it is actu-

ally at hand. All this shows the radical unreason of human

nature. Women frequently succumb altogether to this pre-

dominating influence of present impressions, and there are

few men so overweighted with reason as to escape suffering

from a similar cause.

If it is impossible to resist the effects of some external in-

fluence by the mere play of thought, the best thing to do is

to neutralize it by some contrary influence; for example, the

effect of an insult may be overcome by seeking the society of

those who have a good opinion of us; and the unpleasant

sensation of imminent danger may be avoided by fixing our

attention on the means of warding it off.

Leibnitz

tells of an Italian who managed to bear up un-

der the tortures of the rack by never for a moment ceasing to

think of the gallows which would have awaited him, had he

revealed his secret; he kept on crying out: I see it! I see it!—

afterwards explaining that this was part of his plan.

It is from some such reason as this, that we find it so diffi-

1 Nouveaux Essais. Liv. I. ch. 2. Sec. 11.

Essays – Volume One

cult to stand alone in a matter of opinion,—not to be made

irresolute by the fact that everyone else disagrees with us and

acts accordingly, even though we are quite sure that they are

in the wrong. Take the case of a fugitive king who is trying to

avoid capture; how much consolation he must find in the

ceremonious and submissive attitude of a faithful follower,

exhibited secretly so as not to betray his master’s strict incog-

nito; it must be almost necessary to prevent him doubting

his own existence.

SECTION 20. In the first part of this work I have insisted

upon the great value of health as the chief and most impor-

tant element in happiness. Let me emphasize and confirm

what I have there said by giving a few general rules as to its

preservation.

The way to harden the body is to impose a great deal of

labor and effort upon it in the days of good health,—to ex-

ercise it, both as a whole and in its several parts, and to ha-

bituate it to withstand all kinds of noxious influences. But

on the appearance of an illness or disorder, either in the body

as a whole or in many of its parts, a contrary course should

be taken, and every means used to nurse the body, or the

part of it which is affected, and to spare it any effort; for

what is ailing and debilitated cannot be hardened.

The muscles may be strengthened by a vigorous use of them;

but not so the nerves; they are weakened by it. Therefore,
while exercising the muscles in every way that is suitable, care

should be taken to spare the nerves as much as possible. The
eyes, for instance, should be protected from too strong a
light,—especially when it is reflected light,—from any strain-

ing of them in the dark, or from the long-continued examina-

Schopenhauer

tion of minute objects; and the ears from too loud sounds.
Above all, the brain should never be forced, or used too much,
or at the wrong time; let it have a rest during digestion; for

then the same vital energy which forms thoughts in the brain
has a great deal of work to do elsewhere,—I mean in the di-
gestive organs, where it prepares chyme and chyle. For similar

reasons, the brain should never be used during, or immedi-
ately after, violent muscular exercise. For the motor nerves are
in this respect on a par with the sensory nerves; the pain felt

when a limb is wounded has its seat in the brain; and, in the
same way, it is not really our legs and arms which work and
move,—it is the brain, or, more strictly, that part of it which,

through the medium of the spine, excites the nerves in the
limbs and sets them in motion. Accordingly, when our arms
and legs feel tired, the true seat of this feeling is in the brain.

This is why it is only in connection with those muscles which
are set in motion consciously and voluntarily,—in other words,
depend for their action upon the brain,—that any feeling of

fatigue can arise; this is not the case with those muscles which
work involuntarily, like the heart. It is obvious, then, that in-
jury is done to the brain if violent muscular exercise and intel-

lectual exertion are forced upon it at the same moment, or at

very short intervals.

What I say stands in no contradiction with the fact that at

the beginning of a walk, or at any period of a short stroll, there

often comes a feeling of enhanced intellectual vigor. The parts
of the brain that come into play have had no time to become
tired; and besides, slight muscular exercise conduces to activ-

ity of the respiratory organs, and causes a purer and more
oxydated supply of arterial blood to mount to the brain.

It is most important to allow the brain the full measure of

sleep which is required to restore it; for sleep is to a man’s whole
nature what winding up is to a clock.

This measure will vary

directly with the development and activity of the brain; to over-

step the measure is mere waste of time, because if that is done,
sleep gains only so much in length as it loses in depth.

1 Of. Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, 4th Edition. Bk. II. pp.
236-40.
2 Cf. loc: cit: p. 275. Sleep is a morsel of death borrowed to
keep up and renew the part of life which is exhausted by the
day—le sommeil est un emprunt fait à la mort. Or it might be
said that sleep is the interest we have to pay on the capital
which is called in at death; and the higher the rate of interest
and the more regularly it is paid, the further the date of re-
demption is postponed.

Essays – Volume One

It should be clearly understood that thought is nothing

but the organic function of the brain; and it has to obey the

same laws in regard to exertion and repose as any other or-

ganic function. The brain can be ruined by overstrain, just

like the eyes. As the function of the stomach is to digest, so it

is that of the brain to think. The notion of a soul,—as some-

thing elementary and immaterial, merely lodging in the brain

and needing nothing at all for the performance of its essen-

tial function, which consists in always and unweariedly think-

ing—has undoubtedly driven many people to foolish prac-

tices, leading to a deadening of the intellectual powers;

Frederick the Great, even, once tried to form the habit of

doing without sleep altogether. It would be well if professors

of philosophy refrained from giving currency to a notion

which is attended by practical results of a pernicious charac-

ter; but then this is just what professorial philosophy does,

in its old-womanish endeavor to keep on good terms with

the catechism. A man should accustom himself to view his

intellectual capacities in no other light than that of physi-

ological functions, and to manage them accordingly—nurs-

ing or exercising them as the case may be; remembering that

every kind of physical suffering, malady or disorder, in what-

ever part of the body it occurs, has its effect upon the mind.

The best advice that I know on this subject is given by Cabanis

in his Rapports du physique et du moral de l’homme.

Through neglect of this rule, many men of genius and great

scholars have become weak-minded and childish, or even

gone quite mad, as they grew old. To take no other instances,

there can be no doubt that the celebrated English poets of

the early part of this century, Scott, Wordsworth, Southey,

became intellectually dull and incapable towards the end of

their days, nay, soon after passing their sixtieth year; and

that their imbecility can be traced to the fact that, at that

period of life, they were all led on? by the promise of high

pay, to treat literature as a trade and to write for money. This

seduced them into an unnatural abuse of their intellectual

powers; and a man who puts his Pegasus into harness, and

1 Translator’s Note. The work to which Schopenhauer here
refers is a series of essays by Cabanis, a French philosopher

(1757-1808), treating of mental and moral phenomena on a

physiological basis. In his later days, Cabanis completely

abandoned his materialistic standpoint.

Schopenhauer

urges on his Muse with the whip, will have to pay a penalty

similar to that which is exacted by the abuse of other kinds

of power.

And even in the case of Kant, I suspect that the second

childhood of his last four years was due to overwork in later

life, and after he had succeeded in becoming a famous man.

Every month of the year has its own peculiar and direct

influence upon health and bodily condition generally; nay,

even upon the state of the mind. It is an influence depen-

dent upon the weather.

CHAPTER III

OUR REL

OUR RELA

ATION

TION

TION T

TO O

O O

O OTHERS.—SECTION 21.

THERS.—SECTION 21.

MAKING

HIS

WAY

THROUGH

LIFE

, a man will find it useful to

be ready and able to do two things: to look ahead and to

overlook: the one will protect him from loss and injury, the

other from disputes and squabbles.

No one who has to live amongst men should absolutely

discard any person who has his due place in the order of

nature, even though he is very wicked or contemptible or

ridiculous. He must accept him as an unalterable fact—un-

alterable, because the necessary outcome of an eternal, fun-

damental principle; and in bad cases he should remember

the words of Mephistopheles: es muss auch solche Käuze

geben

—there must be fools and rogues in the world. If he

acts otherwise, he will be committing an injustice, and giv-

ing a challenge of life and death to the man he discards. No

one can alter his own peculiar individuality, his moral char-

acter, his intellectual capacity, his temperament or physique;

1 Goethe’s Faust, Part I.

Essays – Volume One

and if we go so far as to condemn a man from every point of

view, there will be nothing left him but to engage us in deadly

conflict; for we are practically allowing him the right to exist

only on condition that he becomes another man—which is

impossible; his nature forbids it.

So if you have to live amongst men, you must allow every-

one the right to exist in accordance with the character he

has, whatever it turns out to be: and all you should strive to

do is to make use of this character in such a way as its kind

and nature permit, rather than to hope for any alteration in

it, or to condemn it off-hand for what it is. This is the true

sense of the maxim—Live and let live. That, however, is a

task which is difficult in proportion as it is right; and he is a

happy man who can once for all avoid having to do with a

great many of his fellow creatures.

The art of putting up with people may be learned by prac-

ticing patience on inanimate objects, which, in virtue of some

mechanical or general physical necessity, oppose a stubborn

resistance to our freedom of action—a form of patience which

is required every day. The patience thus gained may be ap-

plied to our dealings with men, by accustoming ourselves to

regard their opposition, wherever we encounter it, as the in-

evitable outcome of their nature, which sets itself up against

us in virtue of the same rigid law of necessity as governs the

resistance of inanimate objects. To become indignant at their

conduct is as foolish as to be angry with a stone because it

rolls into your path. And with many people the wisest thing

you can do, is to resolve to make use of those whom you

cannot alter.

Schopenhauer

SECTION 22. It is astonishing how easily and how quickly

similarity, or difference of mind and disposition, makes it-

self felt between one man and another as soon as they begin

to talk: every little trifle shows it. When two people of to-

tally different natures are conversing, almost everything said

by the one will, in a greater or less degree, displease the other,

and in many cases produce positive annoyance; even though

the conversation turn upon the most out-of-the-way sub-

ject, or one in which neither of the parties has any real inter-

est. People of similar nature, on the other hand, immedi-

ately come to feel a kind of general agreement; and if they

are cast very much in the same mould, complete harmony or

even unison will flow from their intercourse.

This explain two circumstances. First of all, it shows why

it is that common, ordinary people are so sociable and find

good company wherever they go. Ah! those good, dear, brave

people. It is just the contrary with those who are not of the

common run; and the less they are so, the more unsociable

they become; so that if, in their isolation, they chance to

come across some one in whose nature they can find even a

single sympathetic chord, be it never so minute, they show

extraordinary pleasure in his society. For one man can be to

another only so much as the other is to him. Great minds are

like eagles, and build their nest in some lofty solitude.

Secondly, we are enabled to understand how it is that people

of like disposition so quickly get on with one another, as

though they were drawn together by magnetic force—kin-

dred souls greeting each other from afar. Of course the most

frequent opportunity of observing this is afforded by people

of vulgar tastes and inferior intellect, but only because their

name is legion; while those who are better off in this respect

and of a rarer nature, are not often to be met with: they are

called rare because you can seldom find them.

Take the case of a large number of people who have formed

themselves into a league for the purpose of carrying out some

practical object; if there be two rascals among them, they

will recognize each other as readily as if they bore a similar

badge, and will at once conspire for some misfeasance or

treachery. In the same way, if you can imagine—per impos-

sible—a large company of very intelligent and clever people,

amongst whom there are only two blockheads, these two

will be sure to be drawn together by a feeling of sympathy,

Essays – Volume One

and each of them will very soon secretly rejoice at having

found at least one intelligent person in the whole company.

It is really quite curious to see how two such men, especially

if they are morally and intellectually of an inferior type, will

recognize each other at first sight; with what zeal they will

strive to become intimate; how affably and cheerily they will

run to greet each other, just as though they were old friends;—

it is all so striking that one is tempted to embrace the Bud-

dhist doctrine of metempsychosis and presume that they were

on familiar terms in some former state of existence.

Still, in spite of all this general agreement, men are kept

apart who might come together; or, in some cases, a passing

discord springs up between them. This is due to diversity of

mood. You will hardly ever see two people exactly in the

same frame of mind; for that is something which varies with

their condition of life, occupation, surroundings, health, the

train of thought they are in at the moment, and so on. These

differences give rise to discord between persons of the most

harmonious disposition. To correct the balance properly, so

as to remove the disturbance—to introduce, as it were, a

uniform temperature,—is a work demanding a very high

degree of culture. The extent to which uniformity of mood

is productive of good-fellowship may be measured by its ef-

fects upon a large company. When, for instance, a great many

people are gathered together and presented with some ob-

jective interest which works upon all alike and influences

them in a similar way, no matter what it be—a common

danger or hope, some great news, a spectacle, a play, a piece

of music, or anything of that kind—you will find them roused

to a mutual expression of thought, and a display of sincere

interest. There will be a general feeling of pleasure amongst

them; for that which attracts their attention produces a unity

of mood by overpowering all private and personal interests.

And in default of some objective interest of the kind I have

mentioned, recourse is usually had to something subjective.

A bottle of wine is not an uncommon means of introducing

a mutual feeling of fellowship; and even tea and coffee are

used for a like end.

The discord which so easily finds its way into all society as

an effect of the different moods in which people happen to

be for the moment, also in part explains why it is that memory

always idealizes, and sometimes almost transfigures, the atti-

Schopenhauer

tude we have taken up at any period of the past—a change

due to our inability to remember all the fleeting influences

which disturbed us on any given occasion. Memory is in this

respect like the lens of a camera obscura: it contracts every-

thing within its range, and so produces a much finer picture

than the actual landscape affords. And, in the case of a man,

absence always goes some way towards securing this advan-

tageous light; for though the idealizing tendency of the

memory requires times to complete its work, it begins it at

once. Hence it is a prudent thing to see your friends and

acquaintances only at considerable intervals of time; and on

meeting them again, you will observe that memory has been

at work.

SECTION 23. No man can see over his own height. Let me

explain what I mean.

You cannot see in another man any more than you have in

yourself; and your own intelligence strictly determines the

extent to which he comes within its grasp. If your intelli-

gence is of a very low order, mental qualities in another, even

though they be of the highest kind, will have no effect at all

upon you; you will see nothing in their possessor except the

meanest side of his individuality—in other words, just those

parts of his character and disposition which are weak and

defective. Your whole estimate of the man will be confined

to his defects, and his higher mental qualities will no more

exist for you than colors exist for those who cannot see.

Intellect is invisible to the man who has none. In any at-

tempt to criticise another’s work, the range of knowledge

possessed by the critic is as essential a part of his verdict as

the claims of the work itself.

Hence intercourse with others involves a process of level-

ing down. The qualities which are present in one man, and

absent in another, cannot come into play when they meet;

and the self-sacrifice which this entails upon one of the par-

Essays – Volume One

ties, calls forth no recognition from the other.

Consider how sordid, how stupid, in a word, how vulgar

most men are, and you will see that it is impossible to talk to

them without becoming vulgar yourself for the time being.

Vulgarity is in this respect like electricity; it is easily distrib-

uted. You will then fully appreciate the truth and propriety

of the expression, to make yourself cheap; and you will be glad

to avoid the society of people whose only possible point of

contact with you is just that part of your nature of which

you have least reason to be proud. So you will see that, in

dealing with fools and blockheads, there is only one way of

showing your intelligence—by having nothing to do with

them. That means, of course, that when you go into society,

you may now and then feel like a good dancer who gets an

invitation to a ball, and on arriving, finds that everyone is

lame:—with whom is he to dance?

SECTION 24. I feel respect for the man—and he is one in

a hundred—who, when he is waiting or sitting unoccupied,

refrains from rattling or beating time with anything that

happens to be handy,—his stick, or knife and fork, or what-

ever else it may be. The probability is that he is thinking of

something.

With a large number of people, it is quite evident that

their power of sight completely dominates over their power

of thought; they seem to be conscious of existence only when

they are making a noise; unless indeed they happen to be

smoking, for this serves a similar end. It is for the same rea-

son that they never fail to be all eyes and ears for what is

going on around them.

Schopenhauer

SECTION 25. La Rochefoucauld makes the striking remark

that it is difficult to feel deep veneration and great affection

for one and the same person. If this is so, we shall have to

choose whether it is veneration or love that we want from

our fellow-men.

Their love is always selfish, though in very different ways;

and the means used to gain it are not always of a kind to

make us proud. A man is loved by others mainly in the de-

gree in which he moderates his claim on their good feeling

and intelligence: but he must act genuinely in the matter

and without dissimulation—not merely out of forbearance,

which is at bottom a kind of contempt. This calls to mind a

very true observation of Helvetius

: the amount of intellect

necessary to please us, is a most accurate measure of the amount

of intellect we have ourselves. With these remarks as premises,

it is easy to draw the conclusion.

1 Translator’s Note. Helvetius, Claude-Adrien (1715-71), a
French philosophical writer much esteemed by

Schopenhauer. His chief work, De l’Esprit, excited great in-

terest and opposition at the time of its publication, on ac-

count of the author’s pronounced materialism.

Now with veneration the case is just the opposite; it is wrung

from men reluctantly, and for that very reason mostly con-

cealed. Hence, as compared with love, veneration gives more

real satisfaction; for it is connected with personal value, and

the same is not directly true of love, which is subjective in its

nature, whilst veneration is objective. To be sure, it is more

useful to be loved than to be venerated.

Essays – Volume One

SECTION 26. Most men are so thoroughly subjective that

nothing really interests them but themselves. They always

think of their own case as soon as ever any remark is made,

and their whole attention is engrossed and absorbed by the

merest chance reference to anything which affects them per-

sonally, be it never so remote: with the result that they have

no power left for forming an objective view of things, should

the conversation take that turn; neither can they admit any

validity in arguments which tell against their interest or their

vanity. Hence their attention is easily distracted. They are so

readily offended, insulted or annoyed, that in discussing any

impersonal matter with them, no care is too great to avoid

letting your remarks bear the slightest possible reference to

the very worthy and sensitive individuals whom you have

before you; for anything you may say will perhaps hurt their

feelings. People really care about nothing that does not af-

fect them personally. True and striking observations, fine,

subtle and witty things are lost upon them: they cannot un-

derstand or feel them. But anything that disturbs their petty

vanity in the most remote and indirect way, or reflects preju-

dicially upon their exceedingly precious selves—to that, they

are most tenderly sensitive. In this respect they are like the

little dog whose toes you are so apt to tread upon inadvert-

ently—you know it by the shrill bark it sets up: or, again,

they resemble a sick man covered with sores and boils, with

whom the greatest care must be taken to avoid unnecessary

handling. And in some people this feeling reaches such a

pass that, if they are talking with anyone, and he exhibits, or

does not sufficiently conceal, his intelligence and discern-

ment, they look upon it as a downright insult; although for

the moment they hide their ill will, and the unsuspecting

author of it afterwards ruminates in vain upon their con-

duct, and racks his brain to discover what he could possibly

have done to excite their malice and hatred.

But it is just as easy to flatter and win them over; and this

is why their judgment is usually corrupt, and why their opin-

ions are swayed, not by what is really true and right, but by

the favor of the party or class to which they belong. And the

ultimate reason of it all is, that in such people force of will

greatly predominates over knowledge; and hence their mea-

gre intellect is wholly given up to the service of the will, and

can never free itself from that service for a moment.

Schopenhauer

Astrology furnishes a magnificent proof of this miserable

subjective tendency in men, which leads them to see every-

thing only as bearing upon themselves, and to think of noth-

ing that is not straightway made into a personal matter. The

aim of astrology is to bring the motions of the celestial bod-

ies into relation with the wretched Ego and to establish a

connection between a comet in the sky and squabbles and

rascalities on earth.

1 See, for instance, Stobasus, Eclog. I. xxii. 9.

SECTION 27. When any wrong statement is made, whether

in public or in society, or in books, and well received—or, at

any rate, not refuted—that that is no reason why you should

despair or think there the matter will rest. You should com-

fort yourself with the reflection that the question will be af-

terwards gradually subjected to examination; light will be

thrown upon it; it will be thought over, considered, discussed,

and generally in the end the correct view will be reached; so

that, after a time—the length of which will depend upon

the difficulty of the subject—everyone will come to under-

stand that which a clear head saw at once.

In the meantime, of course, you must have patience. He

who can see truly in the midst of general infatuation is like a

man whose watch keeps good time, when all clocks in the

town in which he lives are wrong. He alone knows the right

time; but what use is that to him? for everyone goes by the

clocks which speak false, not even excepting those who know

that his watch is the only one that is right.

Essays – Volume One

SECTION 28. Men are like children, in that, if you spoil

them, they become naughty.

Therefore it is well not to be too indulgent or charitable

with anyone. You may take it as a general rule that you will

not lose a friend by refusing him a loan, but that you are

very likely to do so by granting it; and, for similar reasons,

you will not readily alienate people by being somewhat proud

and careless in your behaviour; but if you are very kind and

complaisant towards them, you will often make them arro-

gant and intolerable, and so a breach will ensue.

There is one thing that, more than any other, throws people

absolutely off their balance—the thought that you are de-

pendent upon them. This is sure to produce an insolent and

domineering manner towards you. There are some people,

indeed, who become rude if you enter into any kind of rela-

tion with them; for instance, if you have occasion to con-

verse with them frequently upon confidential matters, they

soon come to fancy that they can take liberties with you,

and so they try and transgress the laws of politeness. This is

why there are so few with whom you care to become more

intimate, and why you should avoid familiarity with vulgar

people. If a man comes to think that I am more dependent

upon him than he is upon me, he at once feels as though I

had stolen something from him; and his endeavor will be to

have his vengeance and get it back. The only way to attain

superiority in dealing with men, is to let it be seen that you

are independent of them.

And in this view it is advisable to let everyone of your ac-

quaintance—whether man or woman—feel now and then

that you could very well dispense with their company. This

will consolidate friendship. Nay, with most people there will

be no harm in occasionally mixing a grain of disdain with

your treatment of them; that will make them value your

friendship all the more. Chi non istima vien stimato, as a subtle

Italian proverb has it—to disregard is to win regard. But if

we really think very highly of a person, we should conceal it

from him like a crime. This is not a very gratifying thing to

do, but it is right. Why, a dog will not bear being treated too

kindly, let alone a man!

Schopenhauer

SECTION 29. It is often the case that people of noble char-

acter and great mental gifts betray a strange lack of worldly

wisdom and a deficiency in the knowledge of men, more

especially when they are young; with the result that it is easy

to deceive or mislead them; and that, on the other hand,

natures of the commoner sort are more ready and successful

in making their way in the world.

The reason of this is that, when a man has little or no

experience, he must judge by his own antecedent notions;

and in matters demanding judgment, an antecedent notion

is never on the same level as experience. For, with the com-

moner sort of people, an antecedent notion means just their

own selfish point of view. This is not the case with those

whose mind and character are above the ordinary; for it is

precisely in this respect—their unselfishness—that they dif-

fer from the rest of mankind; and as they judge other people’s

thoughts and actions by their own high standard, the result

does not always tally with their calculation.

But if, in the end, a man of noble character comes to see,

as the effect of his own experience, or by the lessons he learns

from others, what it is that may be expected of men in gen-

eral,—namely, that five-sixths of them are morally and in-

tellectually so constituted that, if circumstances do not place

you in relation with them, you had better get out of their

way and keep as far as possible from having anything to do

with them,—still, he will scarcely ever attain an adequate

notion of their wretchedly mean and shabby nature: all his

life long he will have to be extending and adding to the infe-

rior estimate he forms of them; and in the meantime he will

commit a great many mistakes and do himself harm.

Then, again, after he has really taken to heart the lessons

that have been taught him, it will occasionally happen that,

when he is in the society of people whom he does not know,

he will be surprised to find how thoroughly reasonable they

all appear to be, both in their conversation and in their de-

meanor—in fact, quite honest, sincere, virtuous and trust-

worthy people, and at the same time shrewd and clever.

But that ought not to perplex him. Nature is not like those

bad poets, who, in setting a fool or a knave before us, do

their work so clumsily, and with such evident design, that

you might almost fancy you saw the poet standing behind

each of his characters, and continually disavowing their sen-

Essays – Volume One

timents, and telling you in a tone of warning: This is a knave;

that is a fool; do not mind what he says. But Nature goes to

work like Shakespeare and Goethe, poets who make every

one of their characters—even if it is the devil himself!—ap-

pear to be quite in the right for the moment that they come

before us in their several parts; the characters are described

so objectively that they excite our interest and compel us to

sympathize with their point of view; for, like the works of

Nature, every one of these characters is evolved as the result

of some hidden law or principle, which makes all they say

and do appear natural and therefore necessary. And you will

always be the prey or the plaything of the devils and fools in

this world, if you expect to see them going about with horns

or jangling their bells.

And it should be borne in mind that, in their intercourse

with others, people are like the moon, or like hunchbacks;

they show you only one of their sides. Every man has an

innate talent for mimicry,—for making a mask out of his

physiognomy, so that he can always look as if he really were

what he pretends to be; and since he makes his calculations

always within the lines of his individual nature, the appear-

ance he puts on suits him to a nicety, and its effect is ex-

tremely deceptive. He dons his mask whenever his object is

to flatter himself into some one’s good opinion; and you may

pay just as much attention to it as if it were made of wax or

cardboard, never forgetting that excellent Italian proverb: non

é si tristo cane che non meni la coda,—there is no dog so bad

but that he will wag his tail.

In any case it is well to take care not to form a highly

favorable opinion of a person whose acquaintance you have

only recently made, for otherwise you are very likely to be

disappointed; and then you will be ashamed of yourself and

perhaps even suffer some injury. And while I am on the sub-

ject, there is another fact that deserves mention. It is this. A

man shows his character just in the way in which he deals

with trifles,—for then he is off his guard. This will often

afford a good opportunity of observing the boundless ego-

ism of man’s nature, and his total lack of consideration for

others; and if these defects show themselves in small things,

or merely in his general demeanor, you will find that they

also underlie his action in matters of importance, although

he may disguise the fact. This is an opportunity which should

Schopenhauer

not be missed. If in the little affairs of every day,—the trifles

of life, those matters to which the rule de minimis non ap-

plies,—a man is inconsiderate and seeks only what is advan-

tageous or convenient to himself, to the prejudice of others’

rights; if he appropriates to himself that which belongs to all

alike, you may be sure there is no justice in his heart, and

that he would be a scoundrel on a wholesale scale, only that

law and compulsion bind his hands. Do not trust him be-

yond your door. He who is not afraid to break the laws of his

own private circle, will break those of the State when he can

do so with impunity.

If the average man were so constituted that the good in

him outweighed the bad, it would be more advisable to rely

upon his sense of justice, fairness, gratitude, fidelity, love or

compassion, than to work upon his fears; but as the contrary

is the case, and it is the bad that outweighs the good, the

opposite course is the more prudent one.

If any person with whom we are associated or have to do,

exhibits unpleasant or annoying qualities, we have only to

ask ourselves whether or not this person is of so much value

to us that we can put up with frequent and repeated exhibi-

tions of the same qualities in a somewhat aggravated form.

In case of an affirmative answer to this question, there will

not be much to be said, because talking is very little use. We

must let the matter pass, with or without some notice; but

we should nevertheless remember that we are thereby expos-

ing ourselves to a repetition of the offence. If the answer is in

the negative, we must break with our worthy friend at once

and forever; or in the case of a servant, dismiss him. For he

will inevitably repeat the offence, or do something tanta-

mount to it, should the occasion return, even though for the

moment he is deep and sincere in his assurances of the con-

trary. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that a man can-

not forget,—but not himself, his own character. For character

is incorrigible; because all a man’s actions emanate from an

inward principle, in virtue of which he must always do the

same thing under like circumstances; and he cannot do oth-

erwise. Let me refer to my prize essay on the so-called Free-

dom of the Will, the perusal of which will dissipate any delu-

sions the reader may have on this subject.

1 To forgive and forget means to throw away dearly bought
experience.

Essays – Volume One

To become reconciled to a friend with whom you have

broken, is a form of weakness; and you pay the penalty of it

when he takes the first opportunity of doing precisely the

very thing which brought about the breach; nay, he does it

the more boldly, because he is secretly conscious that you

cannot get on without him. This is also applicable to ser-

vants whom you have dismissed, and then taken into your

service again.

For the same reason, you should just as little expect people

to continue to act in a similar way under altered circum-

stances. The truth is that men alter their demeanor and sen-

timents just as fast as their interest changes; and their resign

in this respect is a bill drawn for short payment that the man

must be still more short-sighted who accepts the bill with-

out protesting it. Accordingly, suppose you want to know

how a man will behave in an office into which you think of

putting him; you should not build upon expectations, on

his promises or assurances. For, even allowing that he is quite

sincere, he is speaking about a matter of which he has no

knowledge. The only way to calculate how he will behave, is

to consider the circumstances in which he will be placed,

and the extent to which they will conflict with his character.

If you wish to get a clear and profound insight—and it is

very needful—into the true but melancholy elements of

which most men are made, you will find in a very instructive

thing to take the way they behave in the pages of literature as

a commentary to their doings in practical life, and vice versa.

The experience thus gained will be very useful in avoiding

wrong ideas, whether about yourself or about others. But if

you come across any special trait of meanness or stupidity—

in life or in literature,—you must be careful not to let it

annoy or distress you, but to look upon it merely as an addi-

tion to your knowledge—a new fact to be considered in study-

ing the character of humanity. Your attitude towards it will

be that of the mineralogist who stumbles upon a very char-

acteristic specimen of a mineral.

Of course there are some facts which are very exceptional,

and it is difficult to understand how they arise, and how it is

that there come to be such enormous differences between

man and man; but, in general, what was said long ago is

quite true, and the world is in a very bad way. In savage

countries they eat one another, in civilized they deceive one

Schopenhauer

another; and that is what people call the way of the world!

What are States and all the elaborate systems of political

machinery, and the rule of force, whether in home or in for-

eign affairs,—what are they but barriers against the bound-

less iniquity of mankind? Does not all history show that

whenever a king is firmly planted on a throne, and his people

reach some degree of prosperity, he uses it to lead his army,

like a band of robbers, against adjoining countries? Are not

almost all wars ultimately undertaken for purposes of plun-

der? In the most remote antiquity, and to some extent also in

the Middle Ages, the conquered became slaves,—in other

words, they had to work for those who conquered them; and

where is the difference between that and paying war-taxes,

which represent the product of our previous work?

All war, says Voltaire, is a matter of robbery; and the Ger-

mans should take that as a warning.

SECTION 30. No man is so formed that he can be left

entirely to himself, to go his own ways; everyone needs to be

guided by a preconceived plan, and to follow certain general

rules. But if this is carried too far, and a man tries to take on

a character which is not natural or innate in him, but it arti-

ficially acquired and evolved merely by a process of reason-

ing, he will very soon discover that Nature cannot be forced,

and that if you drive it out, it will return despite your ef-

forts:—

Naturam expelles furca, tamen usque recurret.

To understand a rule governing conduct towards others, even

to discover it for oneself and to express it neatly, is easy

enough; and still, very soon afterwards, the rule may be bro-

ken in practice. But that is no reason for despair; and you

need not fancy that as it is impossible to regulate your life in

accordance with abstract ideas and maxims, it is better to

live just as you please. Here, as in all theoretical instruction

that aims at a practical result, the first thing to do is to un-

derstand the rule; the second thing is to learn the practice of

Essays – Volume One

it. The theory may be understand at once by an effort of

reason, and yet the practice of it acquired only in course of

time.

A pupil may lean the various notes on an instrument of

music, or the different position in fencing; and when he

makes a mistake, as he is sure to do, however hard he tries,

he is apt to think it will be impossible to observe the rules,

when he is set to read music at sight or challenged to a furi-

ous duel. But for all that, gradual practice makes him per-

fect, through a long series of slips, blunders and fresh efforts.

It is just the same in other things; in learning to write and

speak Latin, a man will forget the grammatical rules; it is

only by long practice that a blockhead turns into a courtier,

that a passionate man becomes shrewd and worldly-wise, or

a frank person reserved, or a noble person ironical. But though

self-discipline of this kind is the result of long habit, it al-

ways works by a sort of external compulsion, which Nature

never ceases to resist and sometimes unexpectedly overcomes.

The difference between action in accordance with abstract

principles, and action as the result of original, innate ten-

dency, is the same as that between a work of art, say a watch—

where form and movement are impressed upon shapeless and

inert matter—and a living organism, where form and mat-

ter are one, and each is inseparable from the other.

There is a maxim attributed to the Emperor Napoleon,

which expresses this relation between acquired and innate

character, and confirms what I have said: everything that is

unnatural is imperfect;—a rule of universal application,

whether in the physical or in the moral sphere. The only

exception I can think of to this rule is aventurine,

a sub-

stance known to mineralogists, which in its natural state can-

not compare with the artificial preparation of it.

And in this connection let me utter a word of protest against

any and every form of affectation. It always arouses contempt;
in the first place, because it argues deception, and the decep-

tion is cowardly, for it is based on fear; and, secondly, it argues
self-condemnation, because it means that a man is trying to
appear what he is not, and therefore something which he things

1 Translator’s Note. Aventurine is a rare kind of quartz; and the
same name is given to a brownish-colored glass much resem-

bling it, which is manufactured at Murano. It is so called from

the fact that the glass was discovered by chance (arventura).

Schopenhauer

better than he actually is. To affect a quality, and to plume
yourself upon it, is just to confess that you have not got it.
Whether it is courage, or learning, or intellect, or wit, or suc-

cess with women, or riches, or social position, or whatever else
it may be that a man boasts of, you may conclude by his boast-
ing about it that that is precisely the direction in which he is

rather weak; for if a man really possesses any faculty to the
full, it will not occur to him to make a great show of affecting
it; he is quite content to know that he has it. That is the appli-

cation of the Spanish proverb: herradura que chacolotea clavo
le falta—a clattering hoof means a nail gone. To be sure, as I
said at first, no man ought to let the reins go quite loose, and

show himself just as he is; for there are many evil and bestial
sides to our nature which require to be hidden away out of
sight; and this justifies the negative attitude of dissimulation,

but it does not justify a positive feigning of qualities which are
not there. It should also be remembered that affectation is
recognized at once, even before it is clear what it is that is

being affected. And, finally, affectation cannot last very long,
and one day the mask will fall off. Nemo potest personam diu
ferre fictam, says Seneca;

ficta cito in naturam suam recidunt—

no one can persevere long in a fictitious character; for nature
will soon reassert itself.

1 De Clementia, I. 1.

Essays – Volume One

SECTION 31. A man bears the weight of his own body

without knowing it, but he soon feels the weight of any other,

if he tries to move it; in the same way, a man can see other

people’s shortcoming’s and vices, but he is blind to his own.

This arrangement has one advantage: it turns other people

into a kind of mirror, in which a man can see clearly every-

thing that is vicious, faulty, ill-bred and loathsome in his

own nature; only, it is generally the old story of the dog bark-

ing at is own image; it is himself that he sees and not another

dog, as he fancies.

He who criticises others, works at the reformation of him-

self. Those who form the secret habit of scrutinizing other

people’s general behavior, and passing severe judgment upon

what they do and leave undone, thereby improve themselves,

and work out their own perfection: for they will have suffi-

cient sense of justice, or at any rate enough pride and vanity,

to avoid in their own case that which they condemn so harshly

elsewhere. But tolerant people are just the opposite, and claim

for themselves the same indulgence that they extend to oth-

ers—hanc veniam damus petimusque vicissim. It is all very

well for the Bible to talk about the mote in another’s eye and

the beam in one’s own. The nature of the eye is to look not at

itself but at other things; and therefore to observe and blame

faults in another is a very suitable way of becoming con-

scious of one’s own. We require a looking-glass for the due

dressing of our morals.

The same rule applies in the case of style and fine writing.

If, instead of condemning, you applaud some new folly in

these matters, you will imitate it. That is just why literary

follies have such vogue in Germany. The Germans are a very

tolerant people—everybody can see that! Their maxim is—

Hanc veniam damns petimusque vicissim.

Schopenhauer

SECTION 32. When he is young, a man of noble character

fancies that the relations prevailing amongst mankind, and

the alliances to which these relations lead, are at bottom and

essentially, ideal in their nature; that is to say, that they rest

upon similarity of disposition or sentiment, or taste, or in-

tellectual power, and so on.

But, later on, he finds out that it is a real foundation which

underlies these alliances; that they are based upon some ma-

terial interest. This is the true foundation of almost all alli-

ances: nay, most men have no notion of an alliance resting

upon any other basis. Accordingly we find that a man is al-

ways measured by the office he holds, or by his occupation,

nationality, or family relations—in a word, by the position

and character which have been assigned him in the conven-

tional arrangements of life, where he is ticketed and treated

as so much goods. Reference to what he is in himself, as a

man—to the measure of his own personal qualities—is never

made unless for convenience’ sake: and so that view of a

man is something exceptional, to be set aside and ignored,

the moment that anyone finds it disagreeable; and this is

what usually happens. But the more of personal worth a man

has, the less pleasure he will take in these conventional ar-

rangements; and he will try to withdraw from the sphere in

which they apply. The reason why these arrangements exist

at all, is simply that in this world of ours misery and need are

the chief features: therefore it is everywhere the essential and

paramount business of life to devise the means of alleviating

them.

Essays – Volume One

SECTION 33. As paper-money circulates in the world in-

stead of real coin, so, is the place of true esteem and genuine

friendship, you have the outward appearance of it—a mimic

show made to look as much like the real thing as possible.

On the other hand, it may be asked whether there are any

people who really deserve the true coin. For my own part, I

should certainly pay more respect to an honest dog wagging

his tail than to a hundred such demonstrations of human

regard.

True and genuine friendship presupposes a strong sympa-

thy with the weal and woe of another—purely objective in

its character and quite disinterested; and this in its turn means

an absolute identification of self with the object of friend-

ship. The egoism of human nature is so strongly antagonis-

tic to any such sympathy, that true friendship belongs to

that class of things—the sea-serpent, for instance,—with

regard to which no one knows whether they are fabulous or

really exist somewhere or other.

Still, in many cases, there is a grain of true and genuine

friendship in the relation of man to man, though generally,

of course, some secret personal interest is at the bottom of

them—some one among the many forms that selfishness can

take. But in a world where all is imperfect, this grain of true

feeling is such an ennobling influence that it gives some war-

rant for calling those relations by the name of friendship, for

they stand far above the ordinary friendships that prevail

amongst mankind. The latter are so constituted that, were

you to hear how your dear friends speak of you behind your

back, you would never say another word to them.

Apart from the case where it would be a real help to you if

your friend were to make some great sacrifice to serve you,

there is no better means of testing the genuineness of his

feelings than the way in which he receives the news of a mis-

fortune that has just happened to you. At that moment the

expression of his features will either show that his one thought

is that of true and sincere sympathy for you; or else the abso-

lute composure of his countenance, or the passing trace of

something other than sympathy, will confirm the well-known

maxim of La Rochefoucauld: Dans l’adversite de nos meilleurs

amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose qui ne nous deplait

pas. Indeed, at such a moment, the ordinary so-called friend

will find it hard to suppress the signs of a slight smile of

Schopenhauer

pleasure. There are few ways by which you can make more

certain of putting people into a good humor than by telling

them of some trouble that has recently befallen you, or by

unreservedly disclosing some personal weakness of yours.

How characteristic this is of humanity!

Distance and long absence are always prejudicial to friend-

ship, however disinclined a man may be to admit. Our re-

gard for people whom we do not see—even though they be

our dearest friends—gradually dries up in the course of years,

and they become abstract notions; so that our interest in

them grows to be more and more intellectual,—nay, it is

kept up only as a kind of tradition; whilst we retain a lively

and deep interest in those who are constantly before our eyes,

even if they be only pet animals. This shows how much men

are limited by their senses, and how true is the remark that

Goethe makes in Tasso about the dominant influence of the

present moment:—

Die Gegenwart ist eine mächtige Göttin1

1 Act iv., se. 4.

Friends of the house are very rightly so called; because they

are friends of the house rather than of its master; in other

words, they are more like cats than dogs.

Your friends will tell you that they are sincere; your en-

emies are really so. Let your enemies’ censure be like a bitter

medicine, to be used as a means of self-knowledge.

A friend in need, as the saying goes, is rare. Nay, it is just

the contrary; no sooner have you made a friend than he is in

need, and asks for a loan.

Essays – Volume One

SECTION 34. A man must be still a greenhorn in the ways

of the world, if he imagines that he can make himself popu-

lar in society by exhibiting intelligence and discernment. With

the immense majority of people, such qualities excite hatred

and resentment, which are rendered all the harder to bear by

the fact that people are obliged to suppress—even from them-

selves—the real reason of their anger.

What actually takes place is this. A man feels and perceives

that the person with whom he is conversing is intellectually

very much his superior.

He thereupon secretly and half unconsciously concludes that

his interlocutor must form a proportionately low and limited

estimate of his abilities. That is a method of reasoning—an

enthymeme—which rouses the bitterest feelings of sullen and

rancorous hatred. And so Gracian is quite right in saying that

the only way to win affection from people is to show the most

animal-like simplicity of demeanor—para ser bien quisto, el

unico medio vestirse la piel del mas simple de los brutos.

To show your intelligence and discernment is only an in-

direct way of reproaching other people for being dull and

incapable. And besides, it is natural for a vulgar man to be

violently agitated by the sight of opposition in any form;

and in this case envy comes in as the secret cause of his hos-

tility. For it is a matter of daily observation that people take

the greatest pleasure in that which satisfies their vanity; and

vanity cannot be satisfied without comparison with others.

Now, there is nothing of which a man is prouder than of

intellectual ability, for it is this that gives him his command-

1 Cf. Welt als Wills und Vorstellung, Bk. II. p. 256 (4th Edit.),
where I quote from Dr. Johnson, and from Merck, the friend
of Goethe’s youth. The former says: There is nothing by which
a man exasperates most people more, than by displaying a supe-
rior ability of brilliancy in conversation. They seem pleased at
the time, but their envy makes them curse him at their hearts.
(Boswells Life of Johnson aetat: 74).

1 Translator’s Note.—Balthazar Graeian, Oraculo manual, y arte
de prudencia, 240. Gracian (1584-1658) was a Spanish prose
writer and Jesuit, whose works deal chiefly with the observa-
tion of character in the various phenomena of life.
Schopenhauer, among others, had a great admiration for his
worldly philosophy, and translated his Oraculo manual—a
system of rules for the conduct of life—into German. The
same book was translated into English towards the close of
the seventeenth century.

Schopenhauer

ing place in the animal world. It is an exceedingly rash thing

to let any one see that you are decidedly superior to him in

this respect, and to let other people see it too; because he will

then thirst for vengeance, and generally look about for an

opportunity of taking it by means of insult, because this is to

pass from the sphere of intellect to that of will—and there,

all are on an equal footing as regards the feeling of hostility.

Hence, while rank and riches may always reckon upon def-

erential treatment in society, that is something which intel-

lectual ability can never expect; to be ignored is the greatest

favor shown to it; and if people notice it at all, it is because

they regard it as a piece of impertinence, or else as some-

thing to which its possessor has no legitimate right, and upon

which he dares to pride himself; and in retaliation and re-

venge for his conduct, people secretly try and humiliate him

in some other way; and if they wait to do this, it is only for a

fitting opportunity. A man may be as humble as possible in

his demeanor, and yet hardly ever get people to overlook his

crime in standing intellectually above them. In the Garden

of Roses, Sadi makes the remark:—You should know that fool-

ish people are a hundredfold more averse to meeting the wise

than the wise are indisposed for the company of the foolish.

On the other hand, it is a real recommendation to be stu-

pid. For just as warmth is agreeable to the body, so it does

the mind good to feel its superiority; and a man will seek

company likely to give him this feeling, as instinctively as he

will approach the fireplace or walk in the sun if he wants to

get warm. But this means that he will be disliked on account

of his superiority; and if a man is to be liked, he must really

be inferior in point of intellect; and the same thing holds

good of a woman in point of beauty. To give proof of real

and unfeigned inferiority to some of the people you meet—

that is a very difficult business indeed!

Consider how kindly and heartily a girl who is passably

pretty will welcome one who is downright ugly. Physical ad-

vantages are not thought so much of in the case of man,

though I suppose you would rather a little man sat next to

you than one who was bigger than yourself. This is why,

amongst men, it is the dull and ignorant, and amongst

women, the ugly, who are always popular and in request.

1 If you desire to get on in the world, friends and acquain-
tances are by far the best passport to fortune. The possession

Essays – Volume One

is likely to be said of such people that they are extremely

good-natured, because every one wants to find a pretext for

caring about them—a pretext which will blind both himself

and other people to the real reason why he likes them. This

is also why mental superiority of any sort always tends to

isolate its possessor; people run away from him out of pure

hatred, and say all manner of bad things about him by way

of justifying their action. Beauty, in the case of women, has

a similar effect: very pretty girls have no friends of their own

sex, and they even find it hard to get another girl to keep

them company. A handsome woman should always avoid

applying for a position as companion, because the moment

she enters the room, her prospective mistress will scowl at

her beauty, as a piece of folly with which, both for her own

and for her daughter’s sake, she can very well dispense. But if

the girl has advantages of rank, the case is very different;

because rank, unlike personal qualities which work by the

force of mere contrast, produces its effect by a process of

reflection; much in the same way as the particular hue of a

person’s complexion depends upon the prevailing tone of his

immediate surroundings.

of a great deal of ability makes a man proud, and therefore

not apt to flatter those who have very little, and from whom,

on that account, the possession of great ability should be

carefully concealed. The consciousness of small intellectual

power has just the opposite effect, and is very compatible

with a humble, affable and companionable nature, and with

respect for what is mean and wretched. This is why an infe-

rior sort of man has so many friends to befriend and encour-

age him.

These remarks are applicable not only to advancement in

political life, but to all competition for places of honor and

dignity, nay, even for reputation in the world of science, lit-

erature and art. In learned societies, for example, medioc-

rity—that very acceptable quality—is always to the fore,

whilst merit meets with tardy recognition, or with none at

all. So it is in everything.

Schopenhauer

SECTION 35. Our trust in other people often consists in

great measure of pure laziness, selfishness and vanity on our

own part: I say laziness, because, instead of making inquiries

ourselves, and exercising an active care, we prefer to trust

others; selfishness, because we are led to confide in people by

the pressure of our own affairs; and vanity, when we ask con-

fidence for a matter on which we rather pride ourselves. And

yet, for all that, we expect people to be true to the trust we

repose in them.

But we ought not to become angry if people put no trust

in us: because that really means that they pay honesty the

sincere compliment of regarding it as a very rare thing,—so

rare, indeed, as to leave us in doubt whether its existence is

not merely fabulous.

SECTION 36. Politeness,—which the Chinese hold to be a

cardinal virtue,—is based upon two considerations of policy.

I have explained one of these considerations in my Ethics;

the other is as follows:—Politeness is a tacit agreement that

people’s miserable defects, whether moral or intellectual, shall

on either side be ignored and not made the subject of re-

proach; and since these defects are thus rendered somewhat

less obtrusive, the result is mutually advantageous.

It is a wise thing to be polite; consequently, it is a stupid

thing to be rude. To make enemies by unnecessary and will-

ful incivility, is just as insane a proceeding as to set your

house on fire. For politeness is like a counter—an avowedly

1 Translator’s Note.—In the passage referred to (Grundlage
der Moral, collected works, Vol. IV., pp. 187 and 198),

Schopenhauer explains politeness as a conventional and sys-

tematic attempt to mask the egoism of human nature in the

small affairs of life,—an egoism so repulsive that some such

device is necessary for the purpose of concealing its ugliness.

The relation which politeness bears to the true love of one’s

neighbor is analogous to that existing between justice as an

affair of legality, and justice as the real integrity of the heart.

Essays – Volume One

false coin, with which it is foolish to be stingy. A sensible

man will be generous in the use of it. It is customary in every

country to end a letter with the words:—your most obedient

servant—votre très-humble serviteur—suo devotissimo servo.

(The Germans are the only people who suppress the word

servant—Diener—because, of course, it is not true!) How-

ever, to carry politeness to such an extent as to damage your

prospects, is like giving money where only counters are ex-

pected.

Wax, a substance naturally hard and brittle, can be made

soft by the application of a little warmth, so that it will take

any shape you please. In the same way, by being polite and

friendly, you can make people pliable and obliging, even

though they are apt to be crabbed and malevolent. Hence

politeness is to human nature what warmth is to wax.

Of course, it is no easy matter to be polite; in so far, I

mean, as it requires us to show great respect for everybody,

whereas most people deserve none at all; and again in so far

as it demands that we should feign the most lively interest in

people, when we must be very glad that we have nothing to

do with them. To combine politeness with pride is a master-

piece of wisdom.

We should be much less ready to lose our temper over an

insult,—which, in the strict sense of the word, means that

we have not been treated with respect,—if, on the one hand,

we have not such an exaggerated estimate of our value and

dignity—that is to say, if we were not so immensely proud

of ourselves; and, on the other hand, if we had arrived at any

clear notion of the judgment which, in his heart, one man

generally passes upon another. If most people resent the slight-

est hint that any blame attaches to them, you may imagine

their feelings if they were to overhear what their acquain-

tance say about them. You should never lose sight of the fact

that ordinary politeness is only a grinning mask: if it shifts

its place a little, or is removed for a moment, there is no use

raising a hue and cry. When a man is downright rude, it is as

though he had taken off all his clothes, and stood before you

in puris naturalibus. Like most men in this condition, he

does not present a very attractive appearance.

Schopenhauer

SECTION 37. You ought never to take any man as a model

for what you should do or leave undone; because position

and circumstances are in no two cases alike, and difference

of character gives a peculiar, individual tone to what a man

does. Hence duo cum faciunt idem, non est idem—two per-

sons may do the same thing with a different result. A man

should act in accordance with his own character, as soon as

he has carefully deliberated on what he is about to do.

The outcome of this is that originality cannot be dispensed

with in practical matters: otherwise, what a man does will

not accord with what he is.

SECTION 38. Never combat any man’s opinion; for though

you reached the age of Methuselah, you would never have

done setting him right upon all the absurd things that he

believes.

It is also well to avoid correcting people’s mistakes in con-

versation, however good your intentions may be; for it is

easy to offend people, and difficult, if not impossible, to mend

them.

If you feel irritated by the absurd remarks of two people

whose conversation you happen to overhear, you should

imagine that you are listening to a dialogue of two fools in a

comedy. Probatum est.

The man who comes into the world with the notion that

he is really going to instruct in matters of the highest impor-

tance, may thank his stars if he escapes with a whole skin.

Essays – Volume One

SECTION 39. If you want your judgment to be accepted,

express it coolly and without passion. All violence has its

seat in the will; and so, if your judgment is expressed with

vehemence, people will consider it an effort of will, and

not the outcome of knowledge, which is in its nature cold

and unimpassioned. Since the will is the primary and radi-

cal element in human nature, and intellect merely super-

venes as something secondary, people are more likely to

believe that the opinion you express with so much vehe-

mence is due to the excited state of your will, rather than

that the excitement of the will comes only from the ardent

nature of your opinion.

SECTION 40. Even when you are fully justified in praising

yourself, you should never be seduced into doing so. For

vanity is so very common, and merit so very uncommon,

that even if a man appears to be praising himself, though

very indirectly, people will be ready to lay a hundred to one

that he is talking out of pure vanity, and that he has not

sense enough to see what a fool he is making of himself.

Still, for all that, there may be some truth in Bacon’s re-

mark that, as in the case of calumny, if you throw enough

dirt, some of it will stick, so it it also in regard to self-praise;

with the conclusion that self-praise, in small doses, is to be

recommended.

1Translator’s Note.—Schopenhauer alludes to the following
passage in Bacon’s De Augmentis Scientiarum, Bk. viii., ch. 2:

Sicut enim dici solet de calumnia, audacter calumniare, sem-

per aliquid haeret; sic dici potest de jactantia, (nisi plane

deformis fuerit et ridicula), audacter te vendita, semper aliquid

haeret. Haerebit certe apud populum, licet prudentiores

subrideant. Itaque existimatio parta apud plurimos paucorum

fastidium abunde compensabit.

Schopenhauer

SECTION 41. If you have reason to suspect that a person is

telling you a lie, look as though you believed every word he

said. This will give him courage to go on; he will become

more vehement in his assertions, and in the end betray him-

self.

Again, if you perceive that a person is trying to conceal

something from you, but with only partial success, look as

though you did not believe him, This opposition on your

part will provoke him into leading out his reserve of truth

and bringing the whole force of it to bear upon your incre-

dulity.

SECTION 42. You should regard all your private affairs as

secrets, and, in respect of them, treat your acquaintances,

even though you are on good terms with them, as perfect

strangers, letting them know nothing more than they can

see for themselves. For in course of time, and under altered

circumstances, you may find it a disadvantage that they know

even the most harmless things about you.

And, as a general rule, it is more advisable to show your

intelligence by saying nothing than by speaking out; for si-

lence is a matter of prudence, whilst speech has something

in it of vanity. The opportunities for displaying the one or

the other quality occur equally often; but the fleeting satis-

faction afforded by speech is often preferred to the perma-

nent advantage secured by silence.

The feeling of relief which lively people experience in speak-

ing aloud when no one is listening, should not be indulged,

lest it grow into a habit; for in this way thought establishes

such very friendly terms with speech, that conversation is

apt to become a process of thinking aloud. Prudence exacts

that a wide gulf should be fixed between what we think and

what we say.

Essays – Volume One

At times we fancy that people are utterly unable to believe

in the truth of some statement affecting us personally, whereas

it never occurs to them to doubt it; but if we give them the

slightest opportunity of doubting it, they find it absolutely

impossible to believe it any more. We often betray ourselves

into revealing something, simply because we suppose that

people cannot help noticing it,—just as a man will throw

himself down from a great height because he loses his head,

in other words, because he fancies that he cannot retain a

firm footing any longer; the torment of his position is so

great, that he thinks it better to put an end to it at once. This

is the kind of insanity which is called acrophobia.

But it should not be forgotten how clever people are in

regard to affairs which do not concern them, even though

they show no particularly sign of acuteness in other matters.

This is a kind of algebra in which people are very proficient:

give them a single fact to go upon, and they will solve the

most complicated problems. So, if you wish to relate some

event that happened long ago, without mentioning any

names, or otherwise indicating the persons to whom you

refer, you should be very careful not to introduce into your

narrative anything that might point, however distantly, to

some definite fact, whether it is a particular locality, or a

date, or the name of some one who was only to a small ex-

tent implicated, or anything else that was even remotely con-

nected with the event; for that at once gives people some-

thing positive to go upon, and by the aid of their talent for

this sort of algebra, they will discover all the rest. Their curi-

osity in these matters becomes a kind of enthusiasm: their

will spurs on their intellect, and drives it forward to the at-

tainment of the most remote results. For however

unsusceptible and different people may be to general and

universal truths, they are very ardent in the matter of par-

ticular details.

In keeping with what I have said, it will be found that all

those who profess to give instructions in the wisdom of life

are specially urgent in commending the practice of silence,

and assign manifold reasons why it should be observed; so it

is not necessary for me to enlarge upon the subject any fur-

ther. However, I may just add one or two little known Ara-

bian proverbs, which occur to me as peculiarly appropriate:—

Do not tell a friend anything that you would conceal from an

Schopenhauer

enemy.

A secret is in my custody, if I keep it; but should it escape me,

it is I who am the prisoner.

The tree of silence bears the fruit of peace.

SECTION 43. Money is never spent to so much advantage

as when you have been cheated out of it; for at one stroke

you have purchased prudence.

Essays – Volume One

SECTION 44. If possible, no animosity should be felt for

anyone. But carefully observe and remember the manner in

which a man conducts himself, so that you may take the

measure of his value,—at any rate in regard to yourself,—

and regulate your bearing towards him accordingly; never

losing sight of the fact that character is unalterable, and that

to forget the bad features in a man’s disposition is like throw-

ing away hard-won money. Thus you will protect yourself

against the results of unwise intimacy and foolish friend-

ship.

Give way neither to love nor to hate, is one-half of worldly

wisdom: say nothing and believe nothing, the other half. Truly,

a world where there is need of such rules as this and the

following, is one upon which a man may well turn his back.

SECTION 45. To speak angrily to a person, to show your

hatred by what you say or by the way you look, is an unnec-

essary proceeding—dangerous, foolish, ridiculous, and vul-

gar.

Anger and hatred should never be shown otherwise than

in what you do; and feelings will be all the more effective in

action, in so far as you avoid the exhibition of them in any

other way. It is only cold-blooded animals whose bite is poi-

sonous.

Schopenhauer

SECTION 46. To speak without emphasizing your words—

parler sans accent—is an old rule with those who are wise in

the world’s ways. It means that you should leave other people

to discover what it is that you have said; and as their minds

are slow, you can make your escape in time. On the other

hand, to emphasize your meaning—parler avec accent—is to

address their feelings; and the result is always the opposite of

what you expect. If you are polite enough in your manner

and courteous in your tone there are many people whom

you may abuse outright, and yet run no immediate risk of

offending them.

CHAPTER IV

WORLDL

ORLDL

ORLDLY FOR

Y FOR

Y FORTUNE.—SECTION 47.

TUNE.—SECTION 47.

OWEVER

VARIED

THE

FORMS

that human destiny may take,

the same elements are always present; and so life is every-

where much of a piece, whether it passed in the cottage or in

the palace, in the barrack or in the cloister. Alter the circum-

stance as much as you please! point to strange adventures,

successes, failures! life is like a sweet-shop, where there is a

great variety of things, odd in shape and diverse in color—

one and all made from the same paste. And when men speak

of some one’s success, the lot of the man who has failed is

not so very different as it seems. The inequalities in the world

are like the combinations in a kaleidoscope; at every turn a

fresh picture strikes the eye; and yet, in reality, you see only

the same bits of glass as you saw before.

Essays – Volume One

SECTION 48. An ancient writer says, very truly, that there

are three great powers in the world; Sagacity, Strength, and

Luck,—[Greek: sunetos, kratos, tuchu.] I think the last is

the most efficacious.

A man’s life is like the voyage of a ship, where luck—se-

cunda aut adversa fortuna—acts the part of the wind, and

speeds the vessel on its way or drives it far out of its course.

All that the man can do for himself is of little avail; like the

rudder, which, if worked hard and continuously, may help

in the navigation of the ship; and yet all may be lost again by

a sudden squall. But if the wind is only in the right quarter,

the ship will sail on so as not to need any steering. The power

of luck is nowhere better expressed than in a certain Spanish

proverb: Da Ventura a tu hijo, y echa lo en el mar—give your

son luck and throw him into the sea.

Still, chance, it may be said, is a malignant power, and as

little as possible should be left to its agency. And yet where is

there any giver who, in dispensing gifts, tells us quite clearly

that we have no right to them, and that we owe them not to

any merit on our part, but wholly to the goodness and grace

of the giver—at the same time allowing us to cherish the

joyful hope of receiving, in all humility, further undeserved

gifts from the same hands—where is there any giver like that,

unless it be Chance? who understands the kingly art of show-

ing the recipient that all merit is powerless and unavailing

against the royal grace and favor.

On looking back over the course of his life,—that labyrin-

thine way of error,—a man must see many points where luck

failed him and misfortune came; and then it is easy to carry

self-reproach to an unjust excess. For the course of a man’s

life is in no wise entirely of his own making; it is the product

of two factors—the series of things that happened, and his

own resolves in regard to them, and these two are constantly

interacting upon and modifying each other. And besides

these, another influence is at work in the very limited extent

of a man’s horizon, whether it is that he cannot see very far

ahead in respect of the plans he will adopt, or that he is still

less able to predict the course of future events: his knowl-

edge is strictly confined to present plans and present events.

Hence, as long as a man’s goal is far off, he cannot steer straight

for it; he must be content to make a course that is approxi-

mately right; and in following the direction in which he thinks

Schopenhauer

he ought to go, he will often have occasion to tack.

All that a man can do is to form such resolves as from time

to time accord with the circumstances in which he is placed,

in the hope of thus managing to advance a step nearer to-

wards the final goal. It is usually the case that the position in

which we stand, and the object at which we aim, resemble

two tendencies working with dissimilar strength in different

directions; and the course of our life is represented by their

diagonal, or resultant force.

Terence makes the remark that life is like a game at dice,

where if the number that turns up is not precisely the one

you want, you can still contrive to use it equally:—in vita est

hominum quasi cum ludas tesseris; si illud quod maxime opus

est jactu non cadit, illud quod cecidit forte, id arte ut corrigas.

Or, to put the matter more shortly, life is a game of cards,

when the cards are shuffled and dealt by fate. But for my

present purpose, the most suitable simile would be that of a

game of chess, where the plan we determined to follow is

conditioned by the play of our rival,—in life, by the caprice

of fate. We are compelled to modify our tactics, often to

such an extent that, as we carry them out, hardly a single

feature of the original plan can be recognized.

But above and beyond all this, there is another influence

that makes itself felt in our lives. It is a trite saying—only

too frequently true—that we are often more foolish than we

think. On the other hand, we are often wiser than we fancy

ourselves to be. This, however, is a discovery which only those

can make, of whom it is really true; and it takes them a long

time to make it. Our brains are not the wisest part of us. In

the great moments of life, when a man decides upon an im-

portant step, his action is directed not so much by any clear

knowledge of the right thing to do, as by an inner impulse—

you may almost call it an instinct—proceeding from the

deepest foundations of his being. If, later on, he attempts to

criticise his action by the light of hard and fast ideas of what

is right in the abstract—those unprofitable ideas which are

learnt by rote, or, it may be, borrowed from other people; if

he begins to apply general rules, the principles which have

guided others, to his own case, without sufficiently weigh-

ing the maxim that one man’s meat is another’s poison, then

1 He seems to have been referring to a game something like
backgammon.

Essays – Volume One

he will run great risk of doing himself an injustice. The re-

sult will show where the right course lay. It is only when a

man has reached the happy age of wisdom that he is capable

of just judgment in regard either to his own actions or to

those of others.

It may be that this impulse or instinct is the unconscious

effect of a kind of prophetic dream which is forgotten when

we awake—lending our life a uniformity of tone, a dramatic

unity, such as could never result from the unstable moments

of consciousness, when we are so easily led into error, so

liable to strike a false note. It is in virtue of some such pro-

phetic dream that a man feels himself called to great achieve-

ments in a special sphere, and works in that direction from

his youth up out of an inner and secret feeling that that is his

true path, just as by a similar instinct the bee is led to build

up its cells in the comb. This is the impulse which Balthazar

Gracian calls la gran sindéresis

—the great power of moral

discernment: it is something that a man instinctively feels to

be his salvation without which he were lost.

To act in accordance with abstract principles is a difficult

matter, and a great deal of practice will be required before

you can be even occasionally successful; it of tens happens

that the principles do not fit in with your particular case.

But every man has certain innate concrete principles—a part,

1Translator’s Note.—This obscure word appears to be derived
from the Greek sugtaereo (N.T. and Polyb.) meaning “to ob-

serve strictly.” It occurs in The Doctor and Student, a series of

dialogues between a doctor of divinity and a student on the

laws of England, first published in 1518; and is there (Dia-

log. I. ch. 13) explained as “a natural power of the soule, set

in the highest part thereof, moving and stirring it to good,

and abhoring evil.” This passage is copied into Milton’s Com-

monplace Book, edit. Horwood, § 79. The word is also found

in the Dictionary of the Spanish Academy (vol. vi. of the

year 1739) in the sense of an innate discernment of moral

principles, where a quotation is given from Madre Maria de

Jesus, abbess of the convent of the Conception at Agreda, a

mystical writer of the seventeenth century, frequently con-

sulted by Philip IV.,—and again in the Bolognese Dictio-

nary of 1824, with a similar meaning, illustrated from the

writings of Salvini (1653-1729). For these references I am

indebted to the kindness of Mr. Norman Maccoll.

Schopenhauer

as it were, of the very blood that flows in his veins, the sum

or result, in fact, of all his thoughts, feelings and volitions.

Usually he has no knowledge of them in any abstract form;

it is only when he looks back upon the course his life has

taken, that he becomes aware of having been always led on

by them—as though they formed an invisible clue which he

had followed unawares.

SECTION 49. That Time works great changes, and that all

things are in their nature fleeting—these are truths that should

never be forgotten. Hence, in whatever case you may be, it is

well to picture to yourself the opposite: in prosperity, to be

mindful of misfortune; in friendship, of enmity; in good

weather, of days when the sky is overcast; in love, of hatred;

in moments of trust, to imagine the betrayal that will make

you regret your confidence; and so, too, when you are in evil

plight, to have a lively sense of happier times—what a last-

ing source of true worldly wisdom were there! We should

then always reflect, and not be so very easily deceived; be-

cause, in general, we should anticipate the very changes that

the years will bring.

Perhaps in no form of knowledge is personal experience so

indispensable as in learning to see that all things are unstable

and transitory in this world. There is nothing that, in its

own place and for the time it lasts, is not a product of neces-

sity, and therefore capable of being fully justified; and it is

this fact that makes circumstances of every year, every month,

even of every day, seem as though they might maintain their

right to last to all eternity. But we know that this can never

Essays – Volume One

be the case, and that in a world where all is fleeting, change

alone endures. He is a prudent man who is not only unde-

ceived by apparent stability, but is able to forecast the lines

upon which movement will take place.

But people generally think that present circumstances will

last, and that matters will go on in the future as they have

clone in the past. Their mistakes arises from the fact that

they do not understand the cause of the things they see—

causes which, unlike the effects they produce, contain in

themselves the germ of future change. The effects are all that

people know, and they hold fast to them on the supposition

that those unknown causes, which were sufficient to bring

them about, will also be able to maintain them as they are.

This is a very common error; and the fact that it is common

is not without its advantage, for it means that people always

err in unison; and hence the calamity which results from the

error affects all alike, and is therefore easy to bear; whereas, if

a philosopher makes a mistake, he is alone in his error, and

so at a double disadvantage.

But in saying that we should anticipate the effects of time,

I mean that we should mentally forecast what they are likely

to be; I do not mean that we should practically forestall them,

by demanding the immediate performance of promises which

time alone can fulfill. The man who makes his demand will

find out that there is no worse or more exacting usurer than

Time; and that, if you compel Time to give money in ad-

1Chance plays so great a part in all human affairs that when
a man tries to ward off a remote danger by present sacrifice,

the danger often vanishes under some new and unforeseen

development of events; and then the sacrifice, in addition to

being a complete loss, brings about such an altered state of

things as to be in itself a source of positive danger in the face

of this new development. In taking measures of precaution,

then, it is well not to look too far ahead, but to reckon with

chance; and often to oppose a courageous front to a danger,

in the hope that, like many a dark thunder-cloud, it may

pass away without breaking.

1 I may remark, parenthetically, that all this is a confirma-
tion of the principle laid down in Die Welt als Wille und

Vorstellung (Bk. I. p. 94: 4th edit.), that error always consists

in making a wrong inference, that is, in ascribing a given ef-

fect to something that did not cause it.

Schopenhauer

vance, you will have to pay a rate of interest more ruinous

than any Jew would require. It is possible, for instance, to

make a tree burst forth into leaf, blossom, or even bear fruit

within a few days, by the application of unslaked lime and

artificial heat; but after that the tree will wither away. So a

young man may abuse his strength—it may be only for a

few weeks—by trying to do at nineteen what he could easily

manage at thirty, and Time may give him the loan for which

he asks; but the interest he will have to pay comes out of the

strength of his later years; nay, it is part of his very life itself.

There are some kinds of illness in which entire restoration

to health is possible only by letting the complaint run its

natural course; after which it disappears without leaving any

trace of its existence. But if the sufferer is very impatient,

and, while he is still affected, insists that he is completely

well, in this case, too, Time will grant the loan, and the com-

plaint may be shaken off; but life-long weakness and chronic

mischief will be the interest paid upon it.

Again, in time of war or general disturbance, a man may

require ready money at once, and have to sell out his invest-

ments in land or consols for a third or even a still smaller

fraction of the sum he would have received from them, if he

could have waited for the market to right itself, which would

have happened in due course; but he compels Time to grant

him a loan, and his loss is the interest he has to pay. Or

perhaps he wants to go on a long journey and requires the

money: in one or two years he could lay by a sufficient sum

out of his income, but he cannot afford to wait; and so he

either borrows it or deducts it from his capital; in other words,

he gets Time to lend him the money in advance. The inter-

est he pays is a disordered state of his accounts, and perma-

nent and increasing deficits, which he can never make good.

Such is Time’s usury; and all who cannot wait are its vic-

tims. There is no more thriftless proceeding than to try and

mend the measured pace of Time. Be careful, then, not to

become its debtor.

Essays – Volume One

SECTION 50. In the daily affairs of life, you will have very

many opportunities of recognizing a characteristic difference

between ordinary people of prudence and discretion. In esti-

mating the possibility of danger in connection with any un-

dertaking, an ordinary man will confine his inquiries to the

kind of risk that has already attended such undertakings in

the past; whereas a prudent person will look ahead, and con-

sider everything that might possibly happen in the future,

having regard to a certain Spanish maxim: lo que no acaece en

un ano, acaece en un rato—a thing may not happen in a year,

and yet may happen within two minutes.

The difference in question is, of course, quite natural; for

it requires some amount of discernment to calculate possi-

bilities; but a man need only have his senses about him to

see what has already happened.

Do not omit to sacrifice to evil spirits. What I mean is,

that a man should not hesitate about spending time, trouble,

and money, or giving up his comfort, or restricting his aims

and denying himself, if he can thereby shut the door on the

possibility of misfortune. The most terrible misfortunes are

also the most improbable and remote—the least likely to

occur. The rule I am giving is best exemplified in the prac-

tice of insurance,—a public sacrifice made on the altar of

anxiety. Therefore take out your policy of insurance!

Schopenhauer

SECTION 51. Whatever fate befalls you, do not give way

to great rejoicings or great lamentations; partly because all

things are full of change, and your fortune may turn at any

moment; partly because men are so apt to be deceived in

their judgment as to what is good or bad for them.

Almost every one in his turn has lamented over something

which afterwards turned out to be the very best thing for

him that could have happened—or rejoiced at an event which

became the source of his greatest sufferings. The right state

of mind has been finely portrayed by Shakespeare:

I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief That the first face of

neither, on the start, Can woman me unto’t.

And, in general, it may be said that, if a man takes misfor-

tunes quietly, it is because he knows that very many dreadful

things may happen in the course of life; and so he looks

upon the trouble of the moment as only a very small part of

that which might come. This is the Stoic temper—never to

be unmindful of the sad fate of humanity—condicionis

humanoe oblitus; but always to remember that our existence

is full of woe and misery: and that the ills to which we are

exposed are innumerable. Wherever he be, a man need only

cast a look around, to revive the sense of human misery:

there before his eyes he can see mankind struggling and floun-

dering in torment,—all for the sake of a wretched existence,

barren and unprofitable!

If he remembers this, a man will not expect very much

from life, but learn to accommodate himself to a world where

all is relative and no perfect state exists;—always looking mis-

fortune in the face, and if he cannot avoid it, meeting it with

courage.

It should never be forgotten that misfortune, be it great or

small, is the element in which we live. But that is no reason

why a man should indulge in fretful complaints, and, like

Beresford,

pull a long face over the Miseries of Human Life,—

and not a single hour is free from them; or still less, call

upon the Deity at every flea-bite—in pulicis morsu Deum

1 All’s Well that Ends Well, Act. ii. Sc. 2.

1Translator’s Note.—Rev. James Beresford (1764-1840), mis-
cellaneous writer. The full title of this, his chief work, is “The

Miseries of Human Life; or the last groans of Timothy Testy

and Samuel Sensitive, with a few supplementary sighs from

Mrs. Testy.”

Essays – Volume One

invocare. Our aim should be to look well about us, to ward

off misfortune by going to meet it, to attain such perfection

and refinement in averting the disagreeable things of life,—

whether they come from our fellow-men or from the physi-

cal world,—that, like a clever fox, we may slip out of the

way of every mishap, great or small; remembering that a

mishap is generally only our own awkwardness in disguise.

The main reason why misfortune falls less heavily upon

us, if we have looked upon its occurrence as not impossible,

and, as the saying is, prepared ourselves for it, may be this:

if, before this misfortune comes, we have quietly thought

over it as something which may or may not happen, the whole

of its extent and range is known to us, and we can, at least,

determine how far it will affect us; so that, if it really arrives,

it does not depress us unduly—its weight is not felt to be

greater than it actually is. But if no preparation has been

made to meet it, and it comes unexpectedly, the mind is in a

state of terror for the moment and unable to measure the

full extent of the calamity; it seems so far-reaching in its ef-

fects that the victim might well think there was no limit to

them; in any case, its range is exaggerated. In the same way,

darkness and uncertainty always increase the sense of dan-

ger. And, of course, if we have thought over the possibility of

misfortune, we have also at the same time considered the

sources to which we shall look for help and consolation; or,

at any rate, we have accustomed ourselves to the idea of it.

There is nothing that better fits us to endure the misfor-

tunes of life with composure, than to know for certain that

everything that happens—from the smallest up to the greatest

facts of existence—happens of necessity.

A man soon accom-

modates himself to the inevitable—to something that must

be; and if he knows that nothing can happen except of ne-

cessity, he will see that things cannot be other that they

are, and that even the strangest chances in the world are just

as much a product of necessity as phenomena which obey

well-known rules and turn out exactly in accordance with

expectation. Let me here refer to what I have said elsewhere

on the soothing effect of the knowledge that all things are

1 This is a truth which I have firmly established in my prize-
essay on the Freedom of the Will, where the reader will find a

detailed explanation of the grounds on which it rests. Cf. espe-

cially p. 60. [Schopenhauer’s Works, 4th Edit., vol. iv.—Tr.]

Schopenhauer

inevitable and a product of necessity.

If a man is steeped in the knowledge of this truth, he will,

first of all, do what he can, and then readily endure what he

must.

We may regard the petty vexations of life that are con-

stantly happening, as designed to keep us in practice for bear-

ing great misfortunes, so that we may not become completely

enervated by a career of prosperity. A man should be as

Siegfried, armed cap-à-pie, towards the small troubles of ev-

ery day—those little differences we have with our fellow-

men, insignificant disputes, unbecoming conduct in other

people, petty gossip, and many other similar annoyances of

life; he should not feel them at all, much less take them to

heart and brood over them, but hold them at arm’s length

and push them out of his way, like stones that lie in the road,

and upon no account think about them and give them a

place in his reflections.

SECTION 52. What people commonly call Fate is, as a gen-

eral rule, nothing but their own stupid and foolish conduct.

There is a fine passage in Homer,

illustrating the truth of

this remark, where the poet praises [GREEK: maetis]—

shrewd council; and his advice is worthy of all attention. For

if wickedness is atoned for only in another world, stupidity

gets its reward here—although, now and then, mercy may

be shown to the offender.

It is not ferocity but cunning that strikes fear into the heart

and forebodes danger; so true it is that the human brain is a

more terrible weapon than the lion’s paw.

The most finished man of the world would be one who

was never irresolute and never in a hurry.

1 Cf. Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, Bk. I. p. 361 (4th edit.).

1 Iliad, xxiii. 313, sqq.

Essays – Volume One

SECTION 53. Courage comes next to prudence as a quality

of mind very essential to happiness. It is quite true that no

one can endow himself with either, since a man inherits pru-

dence from his mother and courage from his father; still, if

he has these qualities, he can do much to develop them by

means of resolute exercise.

In this world, where the game is played with loaded dice, a

man must have a temper of iron, with armor proof to the

blows of fate, and weapons to make his way against men.

Life is one long battle; we have to fight at every step; and

Voltaire very rightly says that if we succeed, it is at the point

of the sword, and that we die with the weapon in our hand—

on ne réussit dans ce monde qua la pointe de l’épee, et on meurt

les armes à la main. It is a cowardly soul that shrinks or grows

faint and despondent as soon as the storm begins to gather,

or even when the first cloud appears on the horizon. Our

motto should be No Surrender; and far from yielding to the

ills of life, let us take fresh courage from misfortune:—

Tu ne cede malis sed contra audentior ito.

1Virgil, Aeneid, vi. 95.

As long as the issue of any matter fraught with peril is still in

doubt, and there is yet some possibility left that all may come

right, no one should ever tremble or think of anything but

resistance,—just as a man should not despair of the weather

if he can see a bit of blue sky anywhere. Let our attitude be

such that we should not quake even if the world fell in ruins

about us:—

Si fractus illabatur orbis

Impavidum ferient ruinae.

Our whole life itself—let alone its blessings—would not

be worth such a cowardly trembling and shrinking of the

heart. Therefore, let us face life courageously and show a

firm front to every ill:—

Quocirca vivite fortes Fortiaque adversis opponite

pectora rebus.

Still, it is possible for courage to be carried to an excess and

1Horace, Odes iii. 3.

Schopenhauer

to degenerate into rashness. It may even be said that some

amount of fear is necessary, if we are to exist at all in the

world, and cowardice is only the exaggerated form of it. This

truth has been very well expressed by Bacon, in his account

of Terror Panicus; and the etymological account which he

gives of its meaning, is very superior to the ancient explana-

tion preserved for us by Plutarch.

He connects the expres-

sion with Pan the personification of Nature;

and observes

that fear is innate in every living thing, and, in fact, tends to

its preservation, but that it is apt to come into play without

due cause, and that man is especially exposed to it. The chief

feature of this Panie Terror is that there is no clear notion of

any definite danger bound up with it; that it presumes rather

than knows that danger exists; and that, in case of need, it

pleads fright itself as the reason for being afraid.

1De Iside et Osiride ch. 14.
2De Sapientia Veterum, C. 6. Natura enim rerum omnibus
viventibus indidit mentum ac formidinem, vitae atque essentiae
suae conservatricem, ac mala ingruentia vitantem et depellentem.
Verumtamen eaden natura modum tenere nescia est: sed
timoribus salutaribus semper vanos et innanes admiscet; adeo
ut omnia (si intus conspici darentur) Panicis terroribus
plenissima sint praesertim humana.

CHAPTER

CHAPTER V

THE A

THE AGES OF LIFE

GES OF LIFE

HERE

VERY

FINE

SAYING

of Voltaire’s to the effect that

every age of life has its own peculiar mental character, and

that a man will feel completely unhappy if his mind is not in

accordance with his years:—

Qui n’a pas l’esprit de son âge,

De son âge atout le malheur.

It will, therefore, be a fitting close to our speculations upon

the nature of happiness, if we glance at the chances which

the various periods of life produce in us.

Our whole life long it is the present, and the present alone,

that we actually possess: the only difference is that at the

beginning of life we look forward to a long future, and that

towards the end we look back upon a long past; also that our

temperament, but not our character, undergoes certain well-

known changes, which make the present wear a different color

Essays – Volume One

at each period of life.

I have elsewhere stated that in childhood we are more given

to using our intellect than our will; and I have explained why

this is so.

It is just for this reason that the first quarter of life

is so happy: as we look back upon it in after years, it seems a

sort of lost paradise. In childhood our relations with others

are limited, our wants are few,—in a word, there is little stimu-

lus for the will; and so our chief concern is the extension of

our knowledge. The intellect—like the brain, which attains

its full size in the seventh year,

is developed early, though it

takes time to mature; and it explores the whole world of its

surroundings in its constant search for nutriment: it is then

that existence is in itself an ever fresh delight, and all things

sparkle with the charm of novelty.

This is why the years of childhood are like a long poem.

For the function of poetry, as of all art, is to grasp the Idea—

in the Platonic sense; in other words, to apprehend a par-

ticular object in such a way as to perceive its essential nature,

the characteristics it has in common with all other objects of

the same kind; so that a single object appears as the repre-

sentative of a class, and the results of one experience hold

good for a thousand.

It may be thought that my remarks are opposed to fact,

and that the child is never occupied with anything beyond

the individual objects or events which are presented to it

from time to time, and then only in so far as they interest

and excite its will for the moment; but this is not really the

case. In those early years, life—in the full meaning of the

word, is something so new and fresh, and its sensations are

so keen and unblunted by repetition, that, in the midst of all

its pursuits and without any clear consciousness of what it is

doing, the child is always silently occupied in grasping the

nature of life itself,—in arriving at its fundamental character

1 Translator’s Note.—Schopenhauer refers to Die Welt als Wille
und Vorstellung, Bk. II. c, 31, p. 451 (4th edit.), where he
explains that this is due to the fact that at that period of life
the brain and nervous system are much more developed than
any other part of the organism.
2 Translator’s Note.—This statement is not quite correct. The
weight of the brain increases rapidly up to the seventh year,
more slowly between the sixteenth and the twentieth year,
still more slowly till between thirty and forty years of age,
when it attains its maximum. At each decennial period after
this, it is supposed to decrease in weight on the average, an
ounce for every ten years.

Schopenhauer

and general outline by means of separate scenes and experi-

ences; or, to use Spinoza’s phraseology, the child is learning

to see the things and persons about it sub specie aeternitatis,—

as particular manifestations of universal law.

The younger we are, then, the more does every individual

object represent for us the whole class to which it belongs;

but as the years increase, this becomes less and less the case.

That is the reason why youthful impressions are so different

from those of old age. And that it also why the slight knowl-

edge and experience gained in childhood and youth after-

wards come to stand as the permanent rubric, or heading,

for all the knowledge acquired in later life,—those early forms

of knowledge passing into categories, as it were, under which

the results of subsequent experience are classified; though a

clear consciousness of what is being done, does not always

attend upon the process.

In this way the earliest years of a man’s life lay the founda-

tion of his view of the world, whether it be shallow or deep;

and although this view may be extended and perfected later

on, it is not materially altered. It is an effect of this purely

objective and therefore poetical view of the world,—essen-

tial to the period of childhood and promoted by the as yet

undeveloped state of the volitional energy—that, as children,

we are concerned much more with the acquisition of pure

knowledge than with exercising the power of will. Hence

that grave, fixed look observable in so many children, of which

Raphael makes such a happy use in his depiction of cherubs,

especially in the picture of the Sistine Madonna. The years of

childhood are thus rendered so full of bliss that the memory

of them is always coupled with longing and regret.

While we thus eagerly apply ourselves to learning the out-

ward aspect of things, as the primitive method of under-

standing the objects about us, education aims at instilling

into us ideas. But ideas furnish no information as to the real

and essential nature of objects, which, as the foundation and

true content of all knowledge, can be reached only by the

process called intuition. This is a kind of knowledge which

can in no wise be instilled into us from without; we must

arrive at it by and for ourselves.

Hence a man’s intellectual as well as his moral qualities

proceed from the depths of his own nature, and are not the

result of external influences; and no educational scheme—

Essays – Volume One

of Pestalozzi, or of any one else—can turn a born simpleton

into a man of sense. The thing is impossible! He was born a

simpleton, and a simpleton he will die.

It is the depth and intensity of this early intuitive knowl-

edge of the external world that explain why the experiences

of childhood take such a firm hold on the memory. When

we were young, we were completely absorbed in our imme-

diate surroundings; there was nothing to distract our atten-

tion from them; we looked upon the objects about us as

though they were the only ones of their kind, as though,

indeed, nothing else existed at all. Later on, when we come

to find out how many things there are in the world, this

primitive state of mind vanishes, and with it our patience.

I have said elsewhere

that the world, considered as ob-

ject,—in other words, as it is presented to us objectively,—

wears in general a pleasing aspect; but that in the world,

considered as subject,—that is, in regard to its inner nature,

which is will,—pain and trouble predominate. I may be al-

lowed to express the matter, briefly, thus: the world is glorious

to look at, but dreadful in reality.

Accordingly, we find that, in the years of childhood, the

world is much better known to us on its outer or objective

side, namely, as the presentation of will, than on the side of

its inner nature, namely, as the will itself. Since the objective

side wears a pleasing aspect, and the inner or subjective side,

with its tale of horror, remains as yet unknown, the youth, as

his intelligence develops, takes all the forms of beauty that

he sees, in nature and in art, for so many objects of blissful

existence; they are so beautiful to the outward eye that, on

their inner side, they must, he thinks, be much more beauti-

ful still. So the world lies before him like another Eden; and

this is the Arcadia in which we are all born.

A little later, this state of mind gives birth to a thirst for

real life—the impulse to do and suffer—which drives a man

forth into the hurly-burly of the world. There he learns the

other side of existence—the inner side, the will, which is

thwarted at every step. Then comes the great period of disil-

lusion, a period of very gradual growth; but once it has fairly

begun, a man will tell you that he has got over all his false

notions—l’âge des illusions est passé; and yet the process is

1 Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, Bk. II. c. 31, p. 426-7
(4th Edit.), to which the reader is referred for a detailed ex-
planation of my meaning.

Schopenhauer

only beginning, and it goes on extending its sway and apply-

ing more and more to the whole of life.

So it may be said that in childhood, life looks like the scen-

ery in a theatre, as you view it from a distance; and that in

old age it is like the same scenery when you come up quite

close to it.

And, lastly, there is another circumstance that contributes

to the happiness of childhood. As spring commences, the

young leaves on the trees are similar in color and much the

same in shape; and in the first years of life we all resemble

one another and harmonize very well. But with puberty di-

vergence begins; and, like the radii of a circle, we go further

and further apart.

The period of youth, which forms the remainder of this

earlier half of our existence—and how many advantages it

has over the later half!—is troubled and made miserable by

the pursuit of happiness, as though there were no doubt that

it can be met with somewhere in life,—a hope that always

ends in failure and leads to discontent. An illusory image of

some vague future bliss—born of a dream and shaped by

fancy—floats before our eyes; and we search for the reality

in vain. So it is that the young man is generally dissatisfied

with the position in which he finds himself, whatever it may

be; he ascribes his disappointment solely to the state of things

that meets him on his first introduction to life, when he had

expected something very different; whereas it is only the van-

ity and wretchedness of human life everywhere that he is

now for the first time experiencing.

It would be a great advantage to a young man if his early

training could eradicate the idea that the world has a great

deal to offer him. But the usual result of education is to

strengthen this delusion; and our first ideas of life are gener-

ally taken from fiction rather than from fact.

In the bright dawn of our youthful days, the poetry of life

spreads out a gorgeous vision before us, and we torture our-

selves by longing to see it realized. We might as well wish to

grasp the rainbow! The youth expects his career to be like an

interesting romance; and there lies the germ of that disap-

pointment which I have been describing.

What lends a

charm to all these visions is just the fact that they are vision-

ary and not real, and that in contemplating them we are in

1 Cf. loc. cit., p. 428.

100

Essays – Volume One

the sphere of pure knowledge, which is sufficient in itself

and free from the noise and struggle of life. To try and realize

those visions is to make them an object of will—a process

which always involves pain.

If the chief feature of the earlier half of life is a never-satis-

fied longing after happiness, the later half is characterized by

the dread of misfortune. For, as we advance in years, it be-

comes in a greater or less degree clear that all happiness is

chimerical in its nature, and that pain alone is real. Accord-

ingly, in later years, we, or, at least, the more prudent amongst

us, are more intent upon eliminating what is painful from

our lives and making our position secure, than on the pur-

suit of positive pleasure. I may observe, by the way, that in

old age, we are better able to prevent misfortunes from com-

ing, and in youth better able to bear them when they come.

In my young days, I was always pleased to hear a ring at

my door: ah! thought I, now for something pleasant. But in

later life my feelings on such occasions were rather akin to

dismay than to pleasure: heaven help me! thought I, what

am I to do? A similar revulsion of feeling in regard to the

world of men takes place in all persons of any talent or dis-

tinction. For that very reason they cannot be said properly

to belong to the world; in a greater or less degree, according

to the extent of their superiority, they stand alone. In their

youth they have a sense of being abandoned by the world;

but later on, they feel as though they had escaped it. The

earlier feeling is an unpleasant one, and rests upon ignorance;

the second is pleasurable—for in the meantime they have

come to know what the world is.

The consequence of this is that, as compared with the ear-

lier, the later half of life, like the second part of a musical

period, has less of passionate longing and more restfulness

about it. And why is this the case Simply because, in youth,

a man fancies that there is a prodigious amount of happiness

and pleasure to be had in the world, only that it is difficult

to come by it; whereas, when he becomes old, he knows that

there is nothing of the kind; he makes his mind completely

at ease on the matter, enjoys the present hour as well as he

can, and even takes a pleasure in trifles.

The chief result gained by experience of life is clearness of

view. This is what distinguishes the man of mature age, and

2 Let me refer the reader, if he is interested in the subject, to
the volume already cited, chapter 37.

101

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makes the world wear such a different aspect from that which

it presented in his youth or boyhood. It is only then that he

sees things quite plain, and takes them for that which they

really are: while in earlier years he saw a phantom-world, put

together out of the whims and crotchets of his own mind,

inherited prejudice and strange delusion: the real world was

hidden from him, or the vision of it distorted. The first thing

that experience finds to do is to free us from the phantoms

of the brain—those false notions that have been put into us

in youth.

To prevent their entrance at all would, of course, be the

best form of education, even though it were only negative in

aim: but it would be a task full of difficulty. At first the child’s

horizon would have to be limited as much as possible, and

yet within that limited sphere none but clear and correct

notions would have to be given; only after the child had

properly appreciated everything within it, might the sphere

be gradually enlarged; care being always taken that nothing

was left obscure, or half or wrongly understood. The conse-

quence of this training would be that the child’s notions of

men and things would always be limited and simple in their

character; but, on the other hand, they would be clear and

correct, and only need to be extended, not to be rectified.

The same line might be pursued on into the period of youth.

This method of education would lay special stress upon the

prohibition of novel reading; and the place of novels would

be taken by suitable biographical literature—the life of

Franklin, for instance, or Moritz’ Anton Reiser.

In our early days we fancy that the leading events in our

life, and the persons who are going to play an important part

in it, will make their entrance to the sound of drums and

trumpets; but when, in old age, we look back, we find that

they all came in quite quietly, slipped in, as it were, by the

side-door, almost unnoticed.

From the point of view we have been taking up until now,

life may be compared to a piece of embroidery, of which,

during the first half of his time, a man gets a sight of the

right side, and during the second half, of the wrong. The

wrong side is not so pretty as the right, but it is more in-

structive; it shows the way in which the threads have been

1 Translator’s Note.—Moritz was a miscellaneous writer of
the last century (1757-93). His Anton Reiser, composed in
the form of a novel, is practically an autobiography.

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worked together.

Intellectual superiority, even if it is of the highest kind,

will not secure for a man a preponderating place in conver-

sation until after he is forty years of age. For age and experi-

ence, though they can never be a substitute for intellectual

talent, may far outweigh it; and even in a person of the mean-

est capacity, they give a certain counterpoise to the power of

an extremely intellectual man, so long as the latter is young.

Of course I allude here to personal superiority, not to the

place a man may gain by his works.

And on passing his fortieth year, any man of the slightest

power of mind—any man, that is, who has more than the

sorry share of intellect with which Nature has endowed five-

sixths of mankind—will hardly fail to show some trace of

misanthropy. For, as is natural, he has by that time inferred

other people’s character from an examination of his own;

with the result that he has been gradually disappointed to

find that in the qualities of the head or in those of the heart—

and usually in both—he reaches a level to which they do not

attain; so he gladly avoids having anything more to do with

them. For it may be said, in general, that every man will love

or hate solitude—in other Words, his own society—just in

proportion as he is worth anything in himself. Kant has some

remarks upon this kind of misanthropy in his Critique of the

Faculty of Judgment.

In a young man, it is a bad sign, as well from an intellec-

tual as from a moral point of view, if he is precocious in

understanding the ways of the world, and in adapting him-

self to its pursuits; if he at once knows how to deal with

men, and enters upon life, as it were, fully prepared. It ar-

gues a vulgar nature. On the other hand, to be surprised and

astonished at the way people act, and to be clumsy and cross-

grained in having to do with them, indicates a character of

the nobler sort.

The cheerfulness and vivacity of youth are partly due to

the fact that, when we are ascending the hill of life, death is

not visible: it lies down at the bottom of the other side. But

once we have crossed the top of the hill, death comes in

view—death—which, until then, was known to us only by

hearsay. This makes our spirits droop, for at the same time

we begin to feel that our vital powers are on the ebb. A grave

1 Kritik der Urtheilskraft, Part I, §29, Note ad fin.

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seriousness now takes the place of that early extravagance of

spirit; and the change is noticeable even in the expression of

a man’s face. As long as we are young, people may tell us

what they please! we look upon life as endless and use our

time recklessly; but the older we become, the more we prac-

tice economy. For towards the close of life, every day we live

gives us the same kind of sensation as the criminal experi-

ences at every step on his way to be tried.

From the standpoint of youth, life seems to stretch away

into an endless future; from the standpoint of old age, to go

back but a little way into the past; so that, at the beginning,

life presents us with a picture in which the objects appear a

great way off, as though we had reversed our telescope; while

in the end everything seems so close. To see how short life is,

a man must have grown old, that is to say, he must have

lived long.

On the other hand, as the years increase, things look smaller,

one and all; and Life, which had so firm and stable a base in

the days of our youth, now seems nothing but a rapid flight

of moments, every one of them illusory: we have come to see

that the whole world is vanity!

Time itself seems to go at a much slower pace when we are

young; so that not only is the first quarter of life the happi-

est, it is also the longest of all; it leaves more memories be-

hind it. If a man were put to it, he could tell you more out of

the first quarter of his life than out of two of the remaining

periods. Nay, in the spring of life, as in the spring of the year,

the days reach a length that is positively tiresome; but in the

autumn, whether of the year or of life, though they are short,

they are more genial and uniform.

But why is it that to an old man his past life appears so

short? For this reason: his memory is short; and so he fancies

that his life has been short too. He no longer remembers the

insignificant parts of it, and much that was unpleasant is

now forgotten; how little, then, there is left! For, in general,

a man’s memory is as imperfect as his intellect; and he must

make a practice of reflecting upon the lessons he has learned

and the events he has experienced, if he does not want them

both to sink gradually into the gulf of oblivion. Now, we are

unaccustomed to reflect upon matters of no importance, or,

as a rule, upon things that we have found disagreeable, and

yet that is necessary if the memory of them is to be pre-

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served. But the class of things that may be called insignifi-

cant is continually receiving fresh additions: much that wears

an air of importance at first, gradually becomes of no conse-

quence at all from the fact of its frequent repetition; so that

in the end we actually lose count of the number of times it

happens. Hence we are better able to remember the events

of our early than of our later years. The longer we live, the

fewer are the things that we can call important or significant

enough to deserve further consideration, and by this alone

can they be fixed in the memory; in other words, they are

forgotten as soon as they are past. Thus it is that time runs

on, leaving always fewer traces of its passage.

Further, if disagreeable things have happened to us, we do

not care to ruminate upon them, least of all when they touch

our vanity, as is usually the case; for few misfortunes fall upon

us for which we can be held entirely blameless. So people are

very ready to forget many things that are disagreeable, as

well as many that are unimportant.

It is from this double cause that our memory is so short;

and a man’s recollection of what has happened always be-

comes proportionately shorter, the more things that have

occupied him in life. The things we did in years gone by, the

events that happened long ago, are like those objects on the

coast which, to the seafarer on his outward voyage, become

smaller every minute, more unrecognizable and harder to

distinguish.

Again, it sometimes happens that memory and imagina-

tion will call up some long past scene as vividly as if it had

occurred only yesterday; so that the event in question seems

to stand very near to the present time. The reason of this is

that it is impossible to call up all the intervening period in

the same vivid way, as there is no one figure pervading it

which can be taken in at a glance; and besides, most of the

things that happened in that period are forgotten, and all

that remains of it is the general knowledge that we have lived

through it—a mere notion of abstract existence, not a direct

vision of some particular experience. It is this that causes

some single event of long ago to appear as though it took

place but yesterday: the intervening time vanishes, and the

whole of life looks incredibly short. Nay, there are occasional

moments in old age when we can scarcely believe that we are

so advanced in years, or that the long past lying behind us

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Schopenhauer

has had any real existence—a feeling which is mainly due to

the circumstance that the present always seems fixed and

immovable as we look at it. These and similar mental phe-

nomena are ultimately to be traced to the fact that it is not

our nature in itself, but only the outward presentation of it,

that lies in time, and that the present is the point of contact

between the world as subject and the world as object.

Again, why is it that in youth we can see no end to the

years that seem to lie before us? Because we are obliged to

find room for all the things we hope to attain in life. We

cram the years so full of projects that if we were to try and

carry them all out, death would come prematurely though

we reached the age of Methuselah.

Another reason why life looks so long when we are young,

is that we are apt to measure its length by the few years we

have already lived. In those early years things are new to us,

and so they appear important; we dwell upon them after

they have happened and often call them to mind; and thus

in youth life seems replete with incident, and therefore of

long duration.

Sometimes we credit ourselves with a longing to be in some

distant spot, whereas, in truth, we are only longing to have the

time back again which we spent there—days when we were

younger and fresher than we are now. In those moments Time

mocks us by wearing the mask of space; and if we travel to the

spot, we can see how much we have been deceived.

There are two ways of reaching a great age, both of which

presuppose a sound constitution as a conditio sine quâ non.

They may be illustrated by two lamps, one of which burns a

long time with very little oil, because it has a very thin wick;

and the other just as long, though it has a very thick one,

because there is plenty of oil to feed it. Here, the oil is the

vital energy, and the difference in the wick is the manifold

way in which the vital energy is used.

Up to our thirty-sixth year, we may be compared, in re-

spect of the way in which we use our vital energy, to people

1 Translator’s Note.—By this remark Schopenhauer means
that will, which, as he argues, forms the inner reality under-
lying all the phenomena of life and nature, is not in itself
affected by time; but that, on the other hand, time is neces-
sary for the objectification of the will, for the will as pre-
sented in the passing phenomena of the world. Time is thus
definable as the condition of change, and the present time as
the only point of contact between reality and appearance.

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who live on the interest of their money: what they spend to-

day, they have again to-morrow. But from the age of thirty-

six onwards, our position is like that of the investor who

begins to entrench upon his capital. At first he hardly no-

tices any difference at all, as the greater part of his expenses

is covered by the interest of his securities; and if the deficit is

but slight, he pays no attention to it. But the deficit goes on

increasing, until he awakes to the fact that it is becoming

more serious every day: his position becomes less and less

secure, and he feels himself growing poorer and poorer, while

he has no expectation of this drain upon his resources com-

ing to an end. His fall from wealth to poverty becomes faster

every moment—like the fall of a solid body in space, until at

last he has absolutely nothing left. A man is truly in a woeful

plight if both the terms of this comparison—his vital energy

and his wealth—really begin to melt away at one and the

same time. It is the dread of this calamity that makes love of

possession increase with age.

On the other hand, at the beginning of life, in the years

before we attain majority, and for some little time after-

wards—the state of our vital energy puts us on a level with

those who each year lay by a part of their interest and add it

to their capital: in other words, not only does their interest

come in regularly, but the capital is constantly receiving ad-

ditions. This happy condition of affairs is sometimes brought

about—with health as with money—under the watchful care

of some honest guardian. O happy youth, and sad old age!

Nevertheless, a man should economize his strength even

when he is young. Aristotle

observes that amongst those

who were victors at Olympia only two or three gained a prize

at two different periods, once in boyhood and then again

when they came to be men; and the reason of this was that

the premature efforts which the training involved, so com-

pletely exhausted their powers that they failed to last on into

manhood. As this is true of muscular, so it is still more true

of nervous energy, of which all intellectual achievements are

the manifestation. Hence, those infant prodigies—ingenia

praecoda—the fruit of a hot-house education, who surprise

us by their cleverness as children, afterwards turn out very

ordinary folk. Nay, the manner in which boys are forced into

an early acquaintance with the ancient tongues may, per-

1 Politics.

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Schopenhauer

haps, be to blame for the dullness and lack of judgment which

distinguish so many learned persons.

I have said that almost every man’s character seems to be

specially suited to some one period of life, so that on reach-

ing it the man is at his best. Some people are charming so

long as they are young, and afterwards there is nothing at-

tractive about them; others are vigorous and active in man-

hood, and then lose all the value they possess as they ad-

vance in years; many appear to best advantage in old age,

when their character assumes a gentler tone, as becomes men

who have seen the world and take life easily. This is often the

case with the French.

This peculiarity must be due to the fact that the man’s

character has something in it akin to the qualities of youth

or manhood or old age—something which accords with one

or another of these periods of life, or perhaps acts as a cor-

rective to its special failings.

The mariner observes the progress he makes only by the

way in which objects on the coast fade away into the dis-

tance and apparently decrease in size. In the same way a man

becomes conscious that he is advancing in years when he

finds that people older than himself begin to seem young to

him.

It has already been remarked that the older a man becomes,

the fewer are the traces left in his mind by all that he sees,

does or experiences, and the cause of this has been explained.

There is thus a sense in which it may be said that it is only in

youth that a man lives with a full degree of consciousness,

and that he is only half alive when he is old. As the years

advance, his consciousness of what goes on about him

dwindles, and the things of life hurry by without making

any impression upon him, just as none is made by a work of

art seen for the thousandth time. A man does what his hand

finds to do, and afterwards he does not know whether he has

done it or not.

As life becomes more and more unconscious, the nearer it

approaches the point at which all consciousness ceases, the

course of time itself seems to increase in rapidity. In child-

hood all the things and circumstances of life are novel; and

that is sufficient to awake us to the full consciousness of ex-

istence: hence, at that age, the day seems of such immense

length. The same thing happens when we are traveling: one

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month seems longer then than four spent at home. Still,

though time seems to last longer when we are young or on a

journey, the sense of novelty does not prevent it from now

and then in reality hanging heavily upon our hands under

both these circumstances, at any rate more than is the case

when we are old or staying at home. But the intellect gradu-

ally becomes so rubbed down and blunted by long habitua-

tion to such impressions that things have a constant ten-

dency to produce less and less impression upon us as they

pass by; and this makes time seem increasingly less impor-

tant, and therefore shorter in duration: the hours of the boy

are longer than the days of the old man. Accordingly, time

goes faster and faster the longer we live, like a ball rolling

down a hill. Or, to take another example: as in a revolving

disc, the further a point lies from the centre, the more rapid

is its rate of progression, so it is in the wheel of life; the

further you stand from the beginning, the faster time moves

for you. Hence it may be said that as far as concerns the

immediate sensation that time makes upon our minds, the

length of any given year is in direct proportion to the num-

ber of times it will divide our whole life: for instance, at the

age of fifty the year appears to us only one-tenth as long as it

did at the age of five.

This variation in the rate at which time appears to move,

exercises a most decided influence upon the whole nature of

our existence at every period of it. First of all, it causes child-

hood—even though it embrace only a span of fifteen years—

to seem the longest period of life, and therefore the richest

in reminiscences. Next, it brings it about that a man is apt to

be bored just in proportion as he is young. Consider, for

instance, that constant need of occupation—whether it is

work or play—that is shown by children: if they come to an

end of both work and play, a terrible feeling of boredom

ensues. Even in youth people are by no means free from this

tendency, and dread the hours when they have nothing to

do. As manhood approaches, boredom disappears; and old

men find the time too short when their days fly past them

like arrows from a bow. Of course, I must be understood to

speak of men, not of decrepit brutes. With this increased ra-

pidity of time, boredom mostly passes away as we advance

in life; and as the passions with all their attendant pain are

then laid asleep, the burden of life is, on the whole, appre-

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Schopenhauer

ciably lighter in later years than in youth, provided, of course,

that health remains. So it is that the period immediately pre-

ceding the weakness and troubles of old age, receives the

name of a man’s best years.

That may be a true appellation, in view of the comfortable

feeling which those years bring; but for all that the years of

youth, when our consciousness is lively and open to every

sort of impression, have this privilege—that then the seeds

are sown and the buds come forth; it is the springtime of the

mind. Deep truths may be perceived, but can never be

excogitated—that is to say, the first knowledge of them is

immediate, called forth by some momentary impression. This

knowledge is of such a kind as to be attainable only when

the impressions are strong, lively and deep; and if we are to

be acquainted with deep truths, everything depends upon a

proper use of our early years. In later life, we may be better

able to work upon other people,—upon the world, because

our natures are then finished and rounded off, and no more

a prey to fresh views; but then the world is less able to work

upon us. These are the years of action and achievement; while

youth is the time for forming fundamental conceptions, and

laying down the ground-work of thought.

In youth it is the outward aspect of things that most en-

gages us; while in age, thought or reflection is the predomi-

nating quality of the mind. Hence, youth is the time for

poetry, and age is more inclined to philosophy. In practical

affairs it is the same: a man shapes his resolutions in youth

more by the impression that the outward world makes upon

him; whereas, when he is old, it is thought that determines

his actions. This is partly to be explained by the fact that it is

only when a man is old that the results of outward observa-

tion are present in sufficient numbers to allow of their being

classified according to the ideas they represent,—a process

which in its turn causes those ideas to be more fully under-

stood in all their bearings, and the exact value and amount

of trust to be placed in them, fixed and determined; while at

the same time he has grown accustomed to the impressions

produced by the various phenomena of life, and their effects

on him are no longer what they were. Contrarily, in youth,

the impressions that things make, that is to say, the outward

aspects of life, are so overpoweringly strong, especially in the

case of people of lively and imaginative disposition, that they

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view the world like a picture; and their chief concern is the

figure they cut in it, the appearance they present; nay, they

are unaware of the extent to which this is the case. It is a

quality of mind that shows itself—if in no other way—in

that personal vanity, and that love of fine clothes, which dis-

tinguish young people.

There can be no doubt that the intellectual powers are most

capable of enduring great and sustained efforts in youth, up

to the age of thirty-five at latest; from which period their

strength begins to decline, though very gradually. Still, the

later years of life, and even old age itself, are not without

their intellectual compensation. It is only then that a man

can be said to be really rich in experience or in learning; he

has then had time and opportunity enough to enable him to

see and think over life from all its sides; he has been able to

compare one thing with another, and to discover points of

contact and connecting links, so that only then are the true

relations of things rightly understood. Further, in old age

there comes an increased depth in the knowledge that was

acquired in youth; a man has now many more illustrations

of any ideas he may have attained; things which he thought

he knew when he was young, he now knows in reality. And

besides, his range of knowledge is wider; and in whatever

direction it extends, it is thorough, and therefore formed

into a consistent and connected whole; whereas in youth

knowledge is always defective and fragmentary.

A complete and adequate notion of life can never be at-

tained by any one who does not reach old age; for it is only

the old man who sees life whole and knows its natural course;

it is only he who is acquainted—and this is most impor-

tant—not only with its entrance, like the rest of mankind,

but with its exit too; so that he alone has a full sense of its

utter vanity; whilst the others never cease to labor under the

false notion that everything will come right in the end.

On the other hand, there is more conceptive power in

youth, and at that time of life a man can make more out of

the little that he knows. In age, judgment, penetration and

thoroughness predominate. Youth is the time for amassing

the material for a knowledge of the world that shall be dis-

tinctive and peculiar,—for an original view of life, in other

words, the legacy that a man of genius leaves to his fellow-

men; it is, however, only in later years that he becomes mas-

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ter of his material. Accordingly it will be found that, as a

rule, a great writer gives his best work to the world when he

is about fifty years of age. But though the tree of knowledge

must reach its full height before it can bear fruit, the roots of

it lie in youth.

Every generation, no matter how paltry its character, thinks

itself much wiser than the one immediately preceding it, let

alone those that are more remote. It is just the same with the

different periods in a man’s life; and yet often, in the one

case no less than in the other, it is a mistaken opinion. In the

years of physical growth, when our powers of mind and our

stores of knowledge are receiving daily additions, it becomes

a habit for to-day to look down with contempt upon yester-

day. The habit strikes root, and remains even after the intel-

lectual powers have begun to decline,—when to-day should

rather look up with respect to yesterday. So it is that we of-

ten unduly depreciate the achievements as well as the judg-

ments of our youth. This seems the place for making the

general observation, that, although in its main qualities a

man’s intellect or head, as well as his character or heart, is

innate, yet the former is by no means so unalterable in its

nature as the latter. The fact is that the intellect is subject to

very many transformations, which, as a rule, do not fail to

make their actual appearance; and this is so, partly because

the intellect has a deep foundation in the physique, and partly

because the material with which it deals is given in experi-

ence. And so, from a physical point of view, we find that if a

man has any peculiar power, it first gradually increases in

strength until it reaches its acme, after which it enters upon

a path of slow decadence, until it ends in imbecility. But, on

the other hand, we must not lose sight of the fact that the

material which gives employment to a man’s powers and keeps

them in activity,—the subject-matter of thought and knowl-

edge, experience, intellectual attainments, the practice of see-

ing to the bottom of things, and so a perfect mental vision,

form in themselves a mass which continues to increase in

size, until the time comes when weakness shows itself, and

the man’s powers suddenly fail. The way in which these two

distinguishable elements combine in the same nature,—the

one absolutely unalterable, and the other subject to change

in two directions opposed to each other—explains the vari-

ety of mental attitude and the dissimilarity of value which

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attach to a man at different periods of life.

The same truth may be more broadly expressed by saying

that the first forty years of life furnish the text, while the

remaining thirty supply the commentary; and that without

the commentary we are unable to understand aright the true

sense and coherence of the text, together with the moral it

contains and all the subtle application of which it admits.

Towards the close of life, much the same thing happens as

at the end of a bal masqué—the masks are taken off. Then

you can see who the people really are, with whom you have

come into contact in your passage through the world. For by

the end of life characters have come out in their true light,

actions have borne fruit, achievements have been rightly ap-

preciated, and all shams have fallen to pieces. For this, Time

was in every case requisite.

But the most curious fact is that it is also only towards the

close of life than a man really recognizes and understands his

own true self,—the aims and objects he has followed in life,

more especially the kind of relation in which he has stood to

other people and to the world. It will often happen that as a

result of this knowledge, a man will have to assign himself a

lower place than he formerly thought was his due. But there

are exceptions to this rule; and it will occasionally be the

case that he will take a higher position than he had before.

This will be owing to the fact that he had no adequate no-

tion of the baseness of the world, and that he set up a higher

aim for himself than was followed by the rest of mankind.

The progress of life shows a man the stuff of which he is

made.

It is customary to call youth the happy, and age the sad

part of life. This would be true if it were the passions that

made a man happy. Youth is swayed to and fro by them; and

they give a great deal of pain and little pleasure. In age the

passions cool and leave a man at rest, and then forthwith his

mind takes a contemplative tone; the intellect is set free and

attains the upper hand. And since, in itself, intellect is be-

yond the range of pain, and man feels happy just in so far as

his intellect is the predominating part of him.

It need only be remembered that all pleasure is negative,

and that pain is positive in its nature, in order to see that the

passions can never be a source of happiness, and that age is

not the less to be envied on the ground that many pleasures

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are denied it. For every sort of pleasure is never anything

more than the quietive of some need or longing; and that

pleasure should come to an end as soon as the need ceases, is

no more a subject of complaint than that a man cannot go

on eating after he has had his dinner, or fall asleep again

after a good night’s rest.

So far from youth being the happiest period of life, there is

much more truth in the remark made by Plato, at the begin-

ning of the Republic, that the prize should rather be given to

old age, because then at last a man is freed from the animal

passion which has hitherto never ceased to disquiet him. Nay,

it may even be said that the countless and manifold humors

which have their source in this passion, and the emotions

that spring from it, produce a mild state of madness; and

this lasts as long as the man is subject to the spell of the

impulse—this evil spirit, as it were, of which there is no rid-

dance—so that he never really becomes a reasonable being

until the passion is extinguished.

There is no doubt that, in general, and apart from indi-

vidual circumstances and particular dispositions, youth is

marked by a certain melancholy and sadness, while genial

sentiments attach to old age; and the reason for this is noth-

ing but the fact that the young man is still under the service,

nay, the forced labor, imposed by that evil spirit, which

scarcely ever leaves him a moment to himself. To this source

may be traced, directly or indirectly, almost all and every ill

that befalls or menaces mankind. The old man is genial and

cheerful because, after long lying in the bonds of passion, he

can now move about in freedom.

Still, it should not be forgotten that, when this passion is

extinguished, the true kernel of life is gone, and nothing

remains but the hollow shell; or, from another point of view,

life then becomes like a comedy, which, begun by real ac-

tors, is continued and brought to an end by automata dressed

in their clothes.

However that may be, youth is the period of unrest, and

age of repose; and from that very circumstance, the relative

degree of pleasure belonging to each may be inferred. The

child stretches out its little hands in the eager desire to seize

all the pretty things that meet its sight, charmed by the world

because all its senses are still so young and fresh. Much the

same thing happens with the youth, and he displays greater

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energy in his quest. He, too, is charmed by all the pretty

things and the many pleasing shapes that surround him; and

forthwith his imagination conjures up pleasures which the

world can never realize. So he is filled with an ardent desire

for he knows not what delights—robbing him of all rest and

making happiness impossible. But when old age is reached,

all this is over and done with, partly because the blood runs

cooler and the senses are no longer so easily allured; partly

because experience has shown the true value of things and

the futility of pleasure, whereby illusion has been gradually

dispelled, and the strange fancies and prejudices which pre-

viously concealed or distorted a free and true view of the

world, have been dissipated and put to flight; with the result

that a man can now get a juster and clearer view, and see

things as they are, and also in a measure attain more or less

insight into the nullity of all things on this earth.

It is this that gives almost every old man, no matter how

ordinary his faculties may be, a certain tincture of wisdom,

which distinguishes him from the young. But the chief re-

sult of all this change is the peace of mind that ensues—a

great element in happiness, and, in fact, the condition and

essence of it. While the young man fancies that there is a

vast amount of good things in the world, if he could only

come at them, the old man is steeped in the truth of the

Preacher’s words, that all things are vanity—knowing that,

however gilded the shell, the nut is hollow.

In these later years, and not before, a man comes to a true

appreciation of Horace’s maxim: Nil admirari. He is directly

and sincerely convinced of the vanity of everything and that

all the glories of the world are as nothing: his illusions are

gone. He is no more beset with the idea that there is any

particular amount of happiness anywhere, in the palace or

in the cottage, any more than he himself enjoys when he is

free from bodily or mental pain. The worldly distinctions of

great and small, high and low, exist for him no longer; and

in this blissful state of mind the old man may look down

with a smile upon all false notions. He is completely unde-

ceived, and knows that whatever may be done to adorn hu-

man life and deck it out in finery, its paltry character will

soon show through the glitter of its surroundings; and that,

paint and be jewel it as one may, it remains everywhere much

the same,—an existence which has no true value except in

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Schopenhauer

freedom from pain, and is never to be estimated by the pres-

ence of pleasure, let alone, then, of display.

Disillusion is the chief characteristic of old age; for by that

time the fictions are gone which gave life its charm and

spurred on the mind to activity; the splendors of the world

have been proved null and vain; its pomp, grandeur and

magnificence are faded. A man has then found out that be-

hind most of the things he wants, and most of the pleasures

he longs for, there is very little after all; and so he comes by

degrees to see that our existence is all empty and void. It is

only when he is seventy years old that he quite understands

the first words of the Preacher; and this again explains why it

is that old men are sometimes fretful and morose.

It is often said that the common lot of old age is disease

and weariness of life. Disease is by no means essential to old

age; especially where a really long span of years is to be at-

tained; for as life goes on, the conditions of health and disor-

der tend to increase—crescente vita, crescit sanitas et morbus.

And as far as weariness or boredom is concerned, I have stated

above why old age is even less exposed to that form of evil

than youth. Nor is boredom by any means to be taken as a

necessary accompaniment of that solitude, which, for rea-

sons that do not require to be explained, old age certainly

cannot escape; it is rather the fate that awaits those who have

never known any other pleasures but the gratification of the

senses and the delights of society—who have left their minds

unenlightened and their faculties unused. It is quite true that

the intellectual faculties decline with the approach of old

age; but where they were originally strong, there will always

be enough left to combat the onslaught of boredom. And

then again, as I have said, experience, knowledge, reflection,

and skill in dealing with men, combine to give an old man

an increasingly accurate insight into the ways of the world;

his judgment becomes keen and he attains a coherent view

of life: his mental vision embraces a wider range. Constantly

finding new uses for his stores of knowledge and adding to

them at every opportunity, he maintains uninterrupted that

inward process of self-education, which gives employment

and satisfaction to the mind, and thus forms the due reward

of all its efforts.

All this serves in some measure as a compensation for de-

1 Cf. Horace, Epist. I. 12, I-4.

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Essays – Volume One

creased intellectual power. And besides, Time, as I have re-

marked, seems to go much more quickly when we are ad-

vanced in years; and this is in itself a preventive of boredom.

There is no great harm in the fact that a man’s bodily strength

decreases in old age, unless, indeed, he requires it to make a

living. To be poor when one is old, is a great misfortune. If a

man is secure from that, and retains his health, old age may

be a very passable time of life. Its chief necessity is to be

comfortable and well off; and, in consequence, money is then

prized more than ever, because it is a substitute for failing

strength. Deserted by Venus, the old man likes to turn to

Bacchus to make him merry. In the place of wanting to see

things, to travel and learn, comes the desire to speak and

teach. It is a piece of good fortune if the old man retains

some of his love of study or of music or of the theatre,—if,

in general, he is still somewhat susceptible to the things about

him; as is, indeed, the case with some people to a very late

age. At that time of life, what a man has in himself is of greater

advantage to him that ever it was before.

There can be no doubt that most people who have never

been anything but dull and stupid, become more and more

of automata as they grow old. They have always thought,

said and done the same things as their neighbors; and noth-

ing that happens now can change their disposition, or make

them act otherwise. To talk to old people of this kind is like

writing on the sand; if you produce any impression at all, it

is gone almost immediately; old age is here nothing but the

caput mortuum of life—all that is essential to manhood is

gone. There are cases in which nature supplies a third set of

teeth in old age, thereby apparently demonstrating the fact

that that period of life is a second childhood.

It is certainly a very melancholy thing that all a man’s fac-

ulties tend to waste away as he grows old, and at a rate that

increases in rapidity: but still, this is a necessary, nay, a ben-

eficial arrangement, as otherwise death, for which it is a prepa-

ration, would be too hard to bear. So the greatest boon that

follows the attainment of extreme old age is euthanasia,—an

easy death, not ushered in by disease, and free from all pain

and struggle.

For let a man live as long as he may, he is

never conscious of any moment but the present, one and

1 See Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, Bk. II. ch. 41, for
a further description of this happy end to life.

117

Schopenhauer

indivisible; and in those late years the mind loses more every

day by sheer forgetfulness than ever it gains anew.

The main difference between youth and age will always be

that youth looks forward to life, and old age to death; and

that while the one has a short past and a long future before

it, the case is just the opposite with the other. It is quite true

that when a man is old, to die is the only thing that awaits

him; while if he is young, he may expect to live; and the

question arises which of the two fates is the more hazardous,

and if life is not a matter which, on the whole, it is better to

have behind one than before? Does not the Preacher say: the

day of death [is better] than the day of one’s birth.

It is cer-

tainly a rash thing to wish for long life;

for as the Spanish

proverb has it, it means to see much evil,—Quien larga vida

vive mucho mal vide.

1 Ecclesiastes vii. 1.
2 The life of man cannot, strictly speaking, be called either
long or short, since it is the ultimate standard by which dura-
tion of time in regard to all other things is measured.

In one of the Vedic Upanishads (Oupnekhat, II.) the natu-

ral length of human life is put down at one hundred years.
And I believe this to be right. I have observed, as a matter of

fact, that it is only people who exceed the age of ninety who
attain euthanasia,—who die, that is to say, of no disease, apo-
plexy or convulsion, and pass away without agony of any
sort; nay, who sometimes even show no pallor, but expire
generally in a sitting attitude, and often after a meal,—or, I
may say, simply cease to live rather than die. To come to
one’s end before the age of ninety, means to die of disease, in
other words, prematurely.

Now the Old Testament (Psalms xc. 10) puts the limit of

human life at seventy, and if it is very long, at eighty years;
and what is more noticeable still, Herodotus (i. 32 and iii.
22) says the same thing. But this is wrong; and the error is
due simply to a rough and superficial estimate of the results
of daily experience. For if the natural length of life were from
seventy to eighty years, people would die, about that time,
of mere old age. Now this is certainly not the case. If they
die then, they die, like younger people, of disease; and disease
is something abnormal. Therefore it is not natural to die at
that age. It is only when they are between ninety and a hun-
dred that people die of old age; die, I mean, without suffer-
ing from any disease, or showing any special signs of their
condition, such as a struggle, death-rattle, convulsion, pal-
lor,—the absence of all which constitutes euthanasia. The
natural length of human life is a hundred years; and in as-
signing that limit the Upanishads are right once more.

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Essays – Volume One

A man’s individual career is not, as Astrology wishes to

make out, to be predicted from observation of the planets;

but the course of human life in general, as far as the various

periods of it are concerned, may be likened to the succession

of the planets: so that we may be said to pass under the in-

fluence of each one of them in turn.

At ten, Mercury is in the ascendant; and at that age, a youth,

like this planet, is characterized by extreme mobility within

a narrow sphere, where trifles have a great effect upon him;

but under the guidance of so crafty and eloquent a god, he

easily makes great progress. Venus begins her sway during his

twentieth year, and then a man is wholly given up to the love

of women. At thirty, Mars comes to the front, and he is now

all energy and strength,—daring, pugnacious and arrogant.

When a man reaches the age of forty, he is under the rule

of the four Asteroids; that is to say, his life has gained some-

thing in extension. He is frugal; in other words, by the help

of Ceres, he favors what is useful; he has his own hearth, by

the influence of Vesta; Pallas has taught him that which is

necessary for him to know; and his wife—his Juno—rules as

the mistress of his house.

But at the age of fifty, Jupiter is the dominant influence. At

that period a man has outlived most of his contemporaries,

and he can feel himself superior to the generation about him.

He is still in the full enjoyment of his strength, and rich in

experience and knowledge; and if he has any power and po-

sition of his own, he is endowed with authority over all who

stand in his immediate surroundings. He is no more inclined

to receive orders from others; he wants to take command

himself. The work most suitable to him now is to guide and

rule within his own sphere. This is the point where Jupiter

culminates, and where the man of fifty years is at his best.

Then comes Saturn, at about the age of sixty, a weight as

of lead, dull and slow:—

But old folks, many feign as they were dead;

Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.

Last of all, Uranus; or, as the saying is, a man goes to heaven.

I cannot find a place for Neptune, as this planet has been

very thoughtlessly named; because I may not call it as it should

be called—Eros. Otherwise I should point out how Begin-

119

Schopenhauer

ning and End meet together, and how closely and intimately

Eros is connected with Death: how Orcus, or Amenthes, as

the Egyptians called him, is not only the receiver but the

giver of all things—[Greek: lambanon kai didous]. Death is

the great reservoir of Life. Everything comes from Orcus;

everything that is alive now was once there. Could we but

understand the great trick by which that is done, all would

be clear!

Document Outline

Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER I: GENERAL RULES.—SECTION 1
CHAPTER II: OUR RELATION TO OURSELVES.—SECTION 4
CHAPTER III: OUR RELATION TO OTHERS.—SECTION 21
CHAPTER IV: WORLDLY FORTUNE.—SECTION 47
CHAPTER V: THE AGES OF LIFE

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